


may i feel, said he

by bergamots, haganenobeato



Series: may i feel, said he [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Teacher-Student Relationship, is there such a thing as a slow burn pwp?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-18 18:32:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 110,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13106073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bergamots/pseuds/bergamots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/haganenobeato/pseuds/haganenobeato
Summary: “Professor Mustang.”He looks up. Like clockwork. “Miss Hawkeye.” Amused, he fiddles with the keys to his office door and says, “I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose now.”





	1. may you wear the morning well

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Epithumia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8081395) by [pontmercy44](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pontmercy44/pseuds/pontmercy44). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> artwork done by the brilliant **[b-griveros](http://b-griveros.tumblr.com/)** on tumblr!
> 
> chapter titles will derive from poetry and literature - poems, where applicable, will be formatted in the end notes for your reading pleasure
> 
> (Caitlyn Siehl, A Prayer)

The hair. Riza doesn’t get the hair. She fixates on it the first day of class. Her head tilts to the side, supporting her chin with her fingers, and she wonders how it can defy gravity in certain places and how it straddles the line between an intentional hairstyle and  _“do you own a brush?”_

But it fits him somehow. It matches the dark color of his eyes which are cat-like and his roundish face, giving him the illusion that he is much younger than he probably is. He runs his hands through his hair so frequently any attempt to keep it tidy on his part is probably undone by the time he slips his fingers through them once more. Riza watches as he does it again for the second time in the fifteen minutes she’s been in his class. He’s passing out the syllabus one by one through each row and when he gets to hers she’s still observing him like a hawk. He flashes a smile and it disarms her for some unknown reason, scrambling any logic she may have possessed, and causes her look away hastily. There’s no heat to her cheeks, but she can feel the embarrassment in her chest. The fact that she looks away guiltily probably doesn’t help her case either when he walks past her desk, depositing her copy of the syllabus, and they exchange glances for mere moments. She tries to find meaning in it, but recalls that he is, in fact, a professor and will be as such for the rest of the semester.

Professor Mustang introduces the class with a kind of passion and enthusiasm that is only found in people who love what they do, even if it is  _Chemical Literature_  -- which, by the way, is completely different from what she expected. Call it wishful thinking, but she had signed up for her blindly in hopes for a different kind of literary text, the classical kind that she enjoys. In retrospect, Riza recognizes her folly and she should have known better: taking an upper division class in her major hardly calls for reading prose and detecting iambic pentameters. If it fits her schedule and allowed her to gained her hours, then there was little she could complain about.

Riza notices the Professor likes to talk and walk around the room when he further explains what she’s gotten herself into for the next semester. He wears glasses for reading, which gives a studious look to a man who, for all intents and purposes, looked pretty average; his baby face and the unkempt hair doesn’t help that at all. But then she crosses her legs and stares down at her syllabus when he nonchalantly takes off his jacket, while reciting back the policies of his classroom, and rolls up his sleeves to reveal more than just average in the muscle definition this man had in just his forearms. Riza rubs her temple absently when she realizes she was staring again -- checking him out if she was being entirely honest with herself.

To avoid reconciling with the blood that rushed to places she’d rather _not_ acknowledge, Riza looks out the window instead where the snow is still melting from the latest winter flurry. The sun shines bright. She begins to blink away the intensity of the brightness of sunlight hitting white snow. It’s eight in the morning. The entire room is warm. Blinking turns into drooping. He has a rather soothing voice, crisp and smooth like a satin bed sheet to her face. Her entire body relaxes faster than she can become aware of it.

* * *

 

Her shoulder is tapped incessantly. It’s rapid and urgent, but Riza rolls her arm to shrug them off and mumbles something incoherent on the hard surface of her  _very comfortable_  textbook. The tapping continues and she slowly opens her eyes with the budding annoyance of waking from her interrupted nap.

Mortification doesn’t begin to describe the sinking feeling when it dawns on her that isn’t her bedroom or even her living room. She rises quickly in her seat,  the screech of chair legs scraping against wooden floor fills the room, and she hears someone snort as they descend towards the front of the classroom. “If you don’t hurry, you’ll miss your next class.”

She blinks the sleep away before putting the voice to the face. Riza straightens her clothing gathering her belongings hastily. She looks up, “I’m very, _very_  sorry, Professor.” She clears her throat, situating her pack on her back and hurriedly walks down to the front. “That’s most unlike me.”

“You’re not hurting my feelings,” he says cooly as he stuff a stack of papers in his bag. He meets her and smiles at her. She kind of smiles and her ears begin to warm until he says, “Only your grade.”

Her face falls. She searches the surface of his desk for answers and recovery. “I’m willing to do extra credit if need be.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t offer extra credit. Not much extra work you can do for Chemical Literature.” Riza opens her mouth to speak but he continues.“I understand it isn’t the most exciting of topics, but--”

“I understand and it won’t happen again, sir.” She bows her head, and means it.

He pauses and quirks an eyebrow, “Sir?”

She’s so flustered from embarrassment and dazed from sleeping she blurts out, “My father raised to me to --” Riza waves a hand dismissively. “It won’t happen again.”

“All right.” He nods, “I won’t be so nice next time.”

Except it does happens again.

 _Slam._ The impact of a textbook landing precariously close to her face jolts her awake. She straightens in her chair to see him looming over her. Same as before. She doesn’t notice when she falls asleep. His face is stern and she’s not sure how it's possible, but she squirms in her seat. She dares to look around and the students are pretending like she wasn’t made an example of in front of the entire class. Riza waits to be berated on how stupid or lazy she is. She waits to be belittled. But he walks away and continues his lecture as if the interruption never happened.

After class, Riza stands outside of his office. She looks at her simple watch and shifts her weight from leg to leg waiting until he finally rounds the corner. He has a coffee cup in his hand which explains why he took so long to cross from one side of the building to another. He looks surprised to see her and Riza tries to put her best apologetic face but before she speaks he greets her, “Ah, it's you, Miss..?”

“Hawkeye,” she supplies. “I’d like to apologize for falling asleep.”

“Miss Hawkeye,” he parrots back, unlocking the door to his office deftly with one free hand. “I believe I made myself clear about that on the first day of class. And yet, here we are one week later.” He steps into his office and the door is left open. Riza takes it as an invitation to follow him inside.

“Yes, sir, I know I have no excuse but -- “ she tries her to not sound like a victim, “--if you allow me extra work, I can-”

“Like I said, I don’t offer extra credit,” Mustang says gravely and Riza notes the how much more tense he’s become from just the beginning of their conversation. He hangs the jacket on his coat rack and she stares for only a second. She looks away just as he situates himself in his chair.

Chancing it again, she makes her case, “I work nights so I feel the need to ask if could you make an exception, sir?”

He’s organizing loose papers on his desk and stops abruptly at her question. He leans back in his chair and scrutinizes her. It is a strange shift from having a friendly face to an expression that could melt her on the spot, but she schools her own under his gaze. He says to her coolly, “No exceptions.”

Riza looks down, hands clasped in front of her, “I see...” She takes that as her cue to leave.

“And Miss Hawkeye,” he stands from the leisurely way he was sitting in his chair. He walks over to guide her to the door. “I would rethink how you spend your nights and prioritize your schoolwork. If you’re in my class it’s because it’s one of your core classes. You cannot afford to fail it without risking a delay in your progress.” She thinks that’s reasonable; self explanatory. Riza finds herself across the threshold when he finishes: “My advice? Do without the booze money.”

He closes the door in her face and she stands there, stunned for a moment, before she walks away and the indignation settles and stings with each step.

* * *

 

“I don’t like him.”

“What’s there to like?” Olivier supplies from across the living room as she flips absent-mindedly through a magazine. Riza can name a few things, but she doesn’t say it aloud for good measure.

“No, I really don’t like him…” Riza corrects herself before she glances up to her other roommate. “Rebecca, am I capable of hate?”

Rebecca settles next to Riza, cradling a steaming cup of coffee mixed with some Irish creme she’s not supposed to have. “Aw, but he’s cute.” She earns herself a glare from Riza. “What? You can’t tell me he isn’t in the least bit attractive.”

Riza sinks into the couch with crossed arms. “Thinking that he’s cute won’t help me pass the class.”

“Haven’t you gone to his office to explain?” She takes a careful sip. “Or if you can make it up?”

Riza sighs, “I  _have_. I don’t think he’s one to budge.”

“Cry in front of him. Tell him about your dad. He'd have to be heartless not to understand.”

“Don’t cry,” Olivier speaks up again. Her domineering expression was as cold as steel, “It shows weakness.”  

“He doesn’t need to know my personal business.” She’s still fuming from that morning. She hates herself for taking a class so early in the morning, but it never occurred to her that it wouldn’t be an easy transition. It wasn’t so simple: moving around is a lot easier and sitting in a warm classroom and a soothing voice with a handsome face inevitably lulls her to sleep.

“Riza!”

She shakes her head as if to disperse the thoughts from her mind. “I’m sorry, what?”

Rebecca relays her question back, slowly and deliberately like someone inconvenienced from repeating themselves “Have you looked him up on Rate My Professor?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why would you not?” Rebecca scooches in closer, sharing her phone screen.

The display reads in large letters:  **Roy Mustang.**  Chemistry. Rating: 3.9/5. Riza furrows a brow, pointing at the red spice on the screen, and asks, “What’s the pepper for?”

Rebecca smirks, “That’s whether the professor is hot or not.”

Olivier deadpans without so much as a glance up: “Did someone put that on there as a joke?”

Riza ignores them and reads aloud the tags given to him by students: “Hilarious. Great lectures. Tough Tests. Get Ready to Read.  _Tough Grader._  Skip Class? Won’t Pass.  _ **Participation matters.**_ ” She runs a hand through her face, groaning.

“How heavily is participation weighted in his class?”

“Thirty percent-five.”

Rebecca hisses low, but pats Riza’s shoulder sympathetically. “Surely, he won’t drop your grade thirty-five percent.”

“I don’t know,” Riza hands back the phone and pulls her knees close to her chest. “He always looks like he’s in a good mood until he starts talking to me. I think he really does get insulted.” She thinks about the door in her face again. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t be a bit more compassionate towards students. The damn sadist.”

“So cynical at such a young age. What a shame,” Rebecca tuts. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one thing she can do.”

Riza perks up to Olivier’s uncharacteristic offer of advice, hopeful.

“Don’t fall asleep in his class.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Let us pray for the foxes sleeping in your knees.  
>  May you always know when to run._
> 
> _Let us pray for your head hitting the pillow, for your mouth when it whispers  
>  “Enough. Enough of that now.”_
> 
> _O, pain.  
>  O, it is no small thing, with its chariots and its kingdoms built on the backs of the suffering.  
> May you walk straight again in the free land._
> 
> _When the light comes,  
>  may you wear the morning well.  
> May you always keep part of it in your hands._
> 
> _Let us pray for the courage roaring  
>  in your colosseum chest,  
> that it stays hungry and that it wins._
> 
> _Let us pray.  
>  For your blessed bones.  
> For your sacred hands.  
> May you learn to love what is holy in you.  
> May you learn to love what is not._
> 
> _To the ones that have not loved you like you deserve,  
>  may you forget their names.  
> May you remember your own, always.  
> Amen. Amen._


	2. i barely fit inside myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We received such a great reception in last chapter! Thank you so much for your comments and anticipation for this!!
> 
> art is by the talented **[bebbies](http://bebbies.tumblr.com/)** @ tumblr!!
> 
> (clarice lispector, brasília)

She falls asleep again, like clockwork.

On the third week of class, Roy pauses his lecture, spotting the cute blonde on the third row -- no, she is just the  _student_  on the third row -- Miss Hawkeye. The wing-like bang catches his eye and he finds it peculiar in how it matches her name sake. But that’s besides the point: it is the twenty minute mark of his sixty minute class and she’s already dozing on the palm of her hand. He can’t even pretend she’s studying the textbook, because even that is closed.

Students that notice his pause look up from their notes and Roy continues with his normal circuit around the classroom. College students are notorious for sneaking in a nap, even his own lectures aren’t spared despite his best efforts to make a dry topic lively _._ Roy knows this; he, at least, was more subtle about it in his college years.

He’s irked for an entirely different reason. A sleeping student would’ve -  _should have_  flown under his radar were it not for their brief exchange on the first day. That bright morning after winter break, her eyes follows on him as he handed out the syllabus. In his experience, it’s not the first time and he suspects she isn’t the only one that day. He can’t say he’s used to it, because he’s not teaching intermediate Chemistry classes to be ogled by students.

However, Miss Hawkeye doesn’t shoot him suggestive glances or flirty looks. She doesn’t try to catch his attentions with coy waves with just her fingers. She observes him with focused eyes. Fixated, like she’s analyzing him. Roy regrettably realizes that she’s attractive; pretty with her flaxen hair. Roy focuses on his footsteps, but the scrutinizing, brown eyes trails him around the room until he reaches her row.

He purposely meets her eyes and gives her a friendly, polite smile.

He doesn’t anticipate her reaction: her brown eyes widen, caught by surprise like a deer in headlights, and immediately averts her gaze elsewhere. It makes him smirk at such a childish gesture especially after the look she had been giving him is anything but. They exchange glances one more time as he passes her desk and Roy tries his damnedest to deny that his curiosity isn’t flared.

And then, she falls asleep.  

She possesses enough decorum to apologize to him directly unlike students who would duck out shamefully with tails in between their legs. For what it’s worth, Roy takes it genuinely; impressed by her sincerity and her initiative,

Only that it happens again the following week. Then, again during the Friday lecture. He notices that if she’s isn’t  _actually_  sleeping, she’s close to it. Each time she apologizes to him with the same song, because she’s smart enough to know that her grade is in peril, regardless of her above average marks. He forbids himself from wondering what’s stealing her away from sleep. In fact, he forbids himself from wondering or thinking about her more than he has to.

Now, for the second time this week, third time in a row, the hardcover textbook rises in his hand and immediately falls in the center of her desk with a thud. Her body jolts awake. Roy watches her with disapproval and her round eyes look at him apologetically.  _Every_  time she naps, he’s forced, so to speak, to look at her, to remember that she exists.

Walking away, he doesn’t know if he’s irritated by the fact that he goes out of his way to end her siestas or if he’s irritated because some part of him finds the dazed look on pretty, little Miss Hawkeye’s face endearing. That thought is pushed down as far as he can manage.

Roy ends his class, and rounding the corner to his office with his usual cup of coffee, he can almost see the girl standing diligently outside of his door in his mind’s eye. He’s excited, an intrusive thought suggests. He silences the thought by drinking the coffee that’s a bit too hot, and lets the bitterness clear out any thoughts about him and her and -

“Professor Mustang.”

Roy looks up.  _Like clockwork_. She doesn’t disappoint. “Miss Hawkeye.” Amused, he fiddles with the keys to his office door and says, “I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose now.”

He hears her sigh when he swings open the door, “It’s not that.”

“How presumptuous of me,” he deadpans and takes note of the footsteps following him. Jacket hung, Roy settles in his desk chair. “It’s because of your nightly activities that’s leaving you so tired for my class.”

She nods.

“ _Your_  job.”

Miss Hawkeye nods again and he rolls his eyes unsympathetically. “You know the problem, Miss Hawkeye. So why not fix it?”

“I can’t quit my job.”

“Of course.” He tries to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Then I don’t see how your sleep schedules has anything to do with me.”

“And I can’t fail this class,” she informs him with an indomitable expression on her face. She’s determined, he’ll give her that. “Because of a participation grade.”

“Sounds to me like you’re stuck in between a rock and hard place.”  _Do not think about the hard place._

Miss Hawkeye makes a noise of dissatisfaction. He looks up to find round, brown eyes bearing down on him and  _he’s_  almost short of breath. She says, “I ask that you reconsider the extra credit.”

Roy looks at her and it's a staring match between them both. There’s a pregnant pause in the room and her face doesn’t twitch, it doesn’t falter; no twitch on her lip, no spasm in her cheek, she doesn’t even glance away or give clue that she’s going to. She’s the very definition of determination - with stubborness mixed in for flavor. Roy breathes in finally and raises his brows only a little impressed. His answer is the same: “No.”

She deflates, faltering a little. It’s only for a moment though, because she recovers and stands a little straighter, head held up high. “Please,” she says. “Please reconsider, sir.”

That word. That blasted,  _evil_ word.  _Sir._  It goes straight into his ear and plunges down to his groin without warning - without so much as a say on his part. He hears it and tenses up, because he likes it and he likes hearing it from  _her._  He needs to get her out of the office as fast as humanly possible and to figure what he needs to do. Ignore her naps. Just fail her if need be, because this can’t go on.

“Look,” Roy leans forward and the back of his hand hits something. He doesn’t realize he’s knocked over his cup until he feels a different kind of heat on his pants. It’s not scalding, but it provokes him to launch off his chair. The emptied coffee cup falls on the floor and the dark-brown liquid is running down his slacks. He exclaims in expletives and she materializes out of nowhere with a towel.

The cloth could have been hers or his, he didn’t know. This oblivious girl has such frantic look on her face that it pushes him back to his desk, and she starts patting down the front of his pants. It absolutely stuns him - because what the fuck, what is she  _doing_.

What’s worse is that he watches out of disbelief or enjoyment or something darker that horrifies him. No, scratch that, it gets worse. She drops the fucking towel, getting low to the ground, on her knees, and  _continues_ drying his pants close to his groin.

Roy grabs her wrists before she can unwittingly torture him further. She looks at him, surprised. “You need to leave,” he says through grit teeth and his hands release her. “Now.”

Her eyes go big again, like the first time when he catches her staring, and backs away from him. She says meekly, “I’ve dealt with burns and --” She stops, flabbergasted and unsettled. “I’m sorry, sir,” is all she says before she skitters out of his office.

He closes the door, almost slamming it. Roy leans against it. His breath leaves him slowly to regulate the throbbing in his chest. _Fuck._

That night, he can’t sleep.

* * *

The humiliation stays with her for the rest of the morning and into the next day, lingering in the back of her mind, and surfaces on her cheeks whenever it would bubble to the forefront. Every so often, she rubs the small of her wrists. She loses herself in thought throughout the rest of her classes, toying with her bottom lip as her mind replays the encounter. Riza couldn’t go back after that and it’s too late to drop the class without fail. But at this rate, she  _is_ going to fail, all because she can’t stay awake.

Underneath her embarrassment, a frothing layer of indignation simmers. She agrees that there isn’t much to Chemical Literature to give extra credit for, but in the same vein, why does he have to be so adamant about something like participation when her assignments are up to standard? Not even a late assignment -- so far. Riza sighs. Yes, she is to blame too, but… not all students party, sleep, fuck, and-or get high through college, like he so mistakenly assumes about her.

She refocuses over her  _Physical Chemistry_  notes, but they’re bare, and the context of the textbook underneath is far too dry for her interests at that hour. Her eyelids are heavy again. She was staring at the ceiling all afternoon when she was supposed to be resting, and the night feels longe before her. The bright numbers on her phone tells her thirty minutes into midnight, but the fatigue makes her feel like she’s been there for hours.

The library is quiet and warm, compared to the biting chill outside. Only half of the fluorescent lights are on overhead and she can feel her eyelids fluttering.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t take it personally.”

Riza glances up slowly. Her brow creases and she thinks she’s hallucinating or still dreaming when Professor Mustang is leaning on the Service Desk. “I’m sorry - what?”

His face is smug with amusement. “Your siestas in my class.” He clears his throat and she envies the coffee she smells in his cup. Riza does  _not_  think about yesterday afternoon, “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Yes, well, you’ve discovered my dark secret,” she intones, folding her hands over her textbook. “Can I help you?”

He ignores her question and asks instead, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Riza opens her mouth and closes it again; thrown off by a softness in his voice. “I told you as much, sir -” he snorts, but she answers truthfully “- and I didn’t want to use pity as a means to an end.”

“You must think I’m some kind of sadist.”

Riza eyes him as she swivels around, her lip twitching just barely. “I never said that.” Riza hops off the stool, and begins pushing the return cart throughout aisles of bookshelves. The first book to reshelve belongs in the 000 - Generalities.

“Surely, you thought it.”

Unaware of the quiet footsteps trailing her, the book in her hand nearly slips. She quickly turns suspicious. His fingers are drumming the metal handle at the opposite end of her cart and his face is light and friendly. It’s weird. He’s not dressed in his scholarly getup or in those distracting button-ups; the simple sweatshirt and jeans makes him almost look like another, albeit tall, student, especially without his glasses. Riza asks again, “Can I help you?”

“I need help finding some books.”

Riza points him in the direction of computer kiosks, “My hands are tied at the moment, sir. Those computers there will help you find whatever you’re looking for.” She snuggles a book in between two others on the shelf. “If not, Sheska on the second floor is more capable of helping you.” She hauls the cart behind her behind her when he doesn’t say anything.

Five books later and into the Religions section, she can no longer ignore him. Riza breathes in; maybe he is a sadist. Does he want to see her squirm? Was the spilled coffee on purpose? “How are your slacks?”

“I took them to the dry cleaners,” he says smoothly, as always. “I’ll send you the bill.”

She snorts while searching for a place for 303.52 and she blames it on the late-night delirium. Grinning, she asks again, “Can I  _help_  you?”

He blinks, almost dumbfounded, before his composure returns and replies, “Like I said, books.”

Her shoulders drop. Riza is unsure of what kind of game he’s playing, if there even is a game or if it’s all on her. Her index finger gestures again to the computers.

“Oh, and a group study room.”

She quips without a second thought, “Are you expecting more people in the middle of the night?” It isn’t until the last word leaves her lips that it sinks in. Thankfully, he responds well to her dry humor, rewarding her with a laugh and a smile. She suddenly wishes she hadn’t seen it, because this feels too much like flirting.

* * *

 

The group study rooms are equipped with a smartboard and computers that are only available through daylight hours and only by reservation. There was an incident a few years back where students were taking computer parts and other hardware from the rooms.

He requires it for research apparently. The messenger bag is emptied on the large conference desk with notebooks and other texts. Papers are strewn everywhere; it’s almost familiar.

He chooses the room she could see from the help desk on happenstance. Riza watches him in glimpses through the large glass that strange night; his movements are always catching her eye, as he moves around the table, writing on the board, or grabbing his chin deep in thought. The glasses are back on his face and the sweatshirt is off, revealing a casual t-shirt from his own alma mater.

Riza decides to restock every two hours instead of the required four. She still sneaks glances.

Her weariness reaches critical mass with an ache in her bones and the slowing pace of her breathing. Whenever that happens, she lingers in the 800 section, her personal favorite, to jump start her mind with things she actually enjoys. She considers herself lucky she’s snagged the library work-study as this is one of its perks. But the overnights might just be her doom. She’s in the middle of the eloquences of Pablo Neruda when his voice cuts through the imagery.

“I’m finished with the room,” Professor Mustang says to her. He raises an eyebrow when she looks up, barely able to keep her eyes open from the lights overhead. “And you look like you could use ten days of sleep.”

Riza smiles sleepily, if not out of courtesy. “Probably, but some of my professors are very passionate about the presence and participation of students in his class and I have one in three hours. Sleep is a luxury.”

He snorts and for a second time, she’s surprised he’s in such an amicable mood in light of her remarks. Hands snug in his sweatshirt pouch, Professor Mustang nods slowly with an expression she’s too tired to decipher. “I’ll see you in class, Miss Hawkeye.”

Riza sees him go and she stands to stretch, yawning heavily as she does.

* * *

Five minutes shy of eight, Riza tries to not drag her feet into the lecture hall the following with only two odd hours of sleep. On her desk, she recognizes the same type of cup from the other night just sitting on her desk. Her fingers touches it, and finds it warm.

Riza notices the black marker writing from a barista on the side. It reads:  _Stay awake, RH!_

* * *

__


	3. i like its hows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blessings on you, blessings on your cows, blessing on your crops, for the feedback on this trash heap! <33 we're honestly touched!
> 
> artwork by the fantastic **[b-griveros](http://b-griveros.tumblr.com/)** at tumblr
> 
> (e.e. cummings, i like my body when it is with your)

 

Riza waits after class.

As she’s pacing in the front of the bathroom stalls, it feels more like hiding. The surprise coffee on her desk has given her the jitters and everytime she had taken a sip out of it, she felt an unsettling guilt like there was a secret she was hiding.

 _This is ridiculous, it’s literally just coffee_...  _even if it had a personalized note written on it._  He was doing something nice; her professor was doing something nice for her. Maybe that’s what it boiled down to. But she couldn’t just expose him by thanking him in front of the auditorium.

Indecisiveness wiggles its way into her en route to his office. Perhaps a simple thank you note would suffice then she would never have to think anymore of it. A coffee maker would make for a good investment as well.

In the end, she doesn’t have a say in the matter.

“Miss Hawkeye.”

Riza steps out of the way and into him almost knocking into him trying to get out of his way. She was under the assumption to be in his office already, judging by the embarrassing amount of times she’s been there.

He gives her concerned looking pointing to his coffee cup as if to say: “Not again.” Instead, she picks up uncertain undertones when he casually mentions, “You didn’t fall asleep.”  

Riza doesn’t consider herself shy - reserved maybe, but the amount of times she’s been mortified in the last three weeks in the presence of this man alone is throwing her through a loop. She trails behind him with her heartbeat drumming in her ears. “No,” she says quietly. “I did not.”

“What a joy it is to not have to interrupt a lecture to wake you up.”

She bites her lip at the sarcasm. Even though she vowed to never come back, he opens the door for her and Riza edges her way inside. She keeps her arms close to her body eyeing him carefully as he strolls by her, fluffing strands of her loose hair. “I wanted to thank you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He fans out the papers across his desk and the rich oak surface disappears as he empties his bag, just like the night before.

She tries to look over a little, to read his expression because she thinks he’s joking. “For the coffee?” Riza clarifies a little bit braver, clearer.

She straightens herself when his suddenly head snaps to her; his eyes narrow and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Wordlessly and intimidatingly, Mustang walks over to his office door and she can see him checking either side of the hallway before he shuts the door. Riza takes a step back. She’s thoroughly confused when a hand on her shoulder guides her away from the door. “I know it’s from the same place where you get your coffee. It wasn’t from an on-campus cafe.” She doesn’t know why she feels the need to state it out loud; it’s not quite an accusation, nor is it just an innocent statement. She doesn’t understand  _why_  this is bugging her so much - yes, it’s a little unusual but as far as she understands there are no rules about it being wrong to be given a coffee by your professor.

_Right?_

He runs a hand through his hair and it somehow gets even messier, sticking out in all the  _wrong_ right places. “Please don’t misinterpret, Miss Hawkeye. I don’t make it a habit to reward students who sleep in my class with coffee in the morning.”

“No,” she says to the floor, uncharacteristically, and then, unintentionally glances the length of him until meeting his eyes. She cranes her neck a bit just to do so. “Of course not, sir.”  

Mustang clears his throat as he walks away. “I am your professor and you are my student. It’d be precarious to  _both_  our careers if you assumed our relationship extended beyond anything than an academic one.”

Her brow twitches and it feels like she’s been hit with something out of left field. She turns and his back is already to her. Pursing her lips, her cheeks radiate with heat. “I only came to thank you.”

He turns his head slightly to regard her out of the corner of his eye. “Then why are you still here?”

“I - “ Riza struggles with her words; a thick knot caught in her throat as if she’s been caught when, in truth, there isn’t any red on her hands. She racks through her brain, frustrated that he expects her to explain her reasoning when  _he’s_  the reason she’s standing in his office in the first place. “I’ve calculated the totals for possible grades at the end of the semester alongside past assignments, and even if I achieve top marks on your assignments, at most I’ll get is a C for the class in the best possible situation.” She lies to save face, but, to be fair, she’s made a  _really_  broad estimate in her head.

“And?”

She sighs, starting to feel like a parrot, “Extra credit.”

His shoulders visibly drop as he exhales emphatically. “I don’t even know why I asked.” Mustang turns around properly and leans on the edge of his desk, crossing his arms. He fixes a gaze on her and she almost loses her nerve from the scrutiny. He shrugs, ”Take the C. I’m not changing the rules for one student.”

Riza huffs, pushing her bangs away from her face. Her request isn’t  _unreasonable_. She can feel a little tempering simmering in the back drop from the way he shoots her down, almost cruelly. She can finally empathize with Rebecca whining about her stubborn professors. But Riza can’t back down herself because she can’t risk her scholarship - it’s her only real means of paying for her exorbitant tuition and her job is her only real means of paying for her lifestyle, however meager.

Her brow flattens but his demeanor doesn’t change. She defiantly mirrors him, crossing her arms over her chest as a lightbulb goes off, “You just said you don’t make it a habit to buy a student coffee.” Right then, she doesn’t know what that means; she doesn’t connect the dots that it means more than just her ace in the hole.

His face drops. She swallows hard. The air is stifled from her little stunt and she holds a breath looking at him looking at her wordlessly. She becomes painfully aware that she is a student in a closed office with a professor who has bought her coffee.

His abrupt laughter fills the room, like she’s told the funniest joke, and it adds a different tension to his office. Mustang sets aside his glasses to rub at his eyes.“I didn’t expect that to come back to bite me so quickly. Do you always bite the hand that feeds?”

She doesn’t say anything. She’s won and he knows it. Anything said to her beyond that confirmation is distraction, so she lifts an eyebrow emotionlessly.

He smiles and that manages to stir something in her otherwise steel gut, “Right. Since you managed a successful checkmate, I’ll concede to your victory.”

The rigidity in her muscles dissipate, finally.

“Please note, Miss Hawkeye,” he says matter-of-factly with a push to his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “That I won’t just  _give_  extra credit. You will have to  _earn_  it.”

“Understandable.” She nods, and despite her relieved smile she knows enough stories, true or imagined, to be wary of that tone and diction, for her own reasons. “What will you have me do?”

Mustang chews on his bottom lip while staring at the space in front of her feet, contemplating. His fingers drum on the overhang of his desk.

Riza’s eyes wander around the room while he thinks - an order for herself to stop staring at the man and, for as many times as she’s been here to grovel, she’s never noticed how spartan the room is. Filled with books and frames with diplomas, but nothing telling about him, like pictures, personal or professional. There isn’t a ring on him either, not that it matters for her, but she hasn’t considered how young he really looks for a professor. Couldn’t be older than thirty. She couldn’t be sure. Something tells her that, underneath his clothes, he’s undeniably fit for someone in academia.

Blushing lightly, she doesn’t follow that train of thought, but her attention snaps back to him when speaks again.

“I chose to work for this university because of its extensive resources.” He raises his eyebrows but not his unfocused gaze. “It’s amazing, actually, how much this place pours into scientific research.” His eyes fix on her. “It’s why you saw me yesterday night at the library and why there are papers all over the place on this desk.”

Her head tilts in the slightest way, unsure.

Mustang pushes off the desk and at last takes a seat in his rolling chair. “I need an organizational assistant. The department had informed me I’d be able to choose one in a couple of weeks from the class list, but I really don’t have the time for that...nor the patience.”

Papers she can do. No problem, easy. But being around him more than she should feels like a red flag. Something in her gut tells her to walk away from it, like a premonition of danger -- or bad decisions. She repeats back to him, “You want me to be your assistant?”

“Unofficially,” he corrects. “To help me organize and other administrative tasks, like finding books and indexing sources, until I’m cleared to find one of my own.”

Riza breathes out. “I’m sorry, sir, but I barely have time as it is with my courseload and my position in the library.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. Overnights can be surprisingly productive for me.” He smirks, flipping a pen in his hand. “Think of it as a few extra tasks to do while you work at the library. For only a limited time.”

 

* * *

 

Rebecca’s cackling laugh is one of her…less endearing features and it grates on Riza regardless if she’s had any restful sleep or not. She finds herself slinking away from her food and into her chair. It’s already boisterous in the dining hall on campus and people are still looking in their direction.

Her words are choppy, in between breaths. “I  _cannot_ ** _believe_**  you convinced him to give you want.” Rebecca obliviously remarks, “You look so angry all of a sudden. ...what did you have to do?”

“Please don’t phrase it like that.” Riza pokes at her fruit. “And try not to draw attention.”

“I can tell it’s not an easy feat, Riza. You said you’ve been living at his office for the past month.”

“Rebecca  ** _please_.** _”_

“Relax, I’m joking. I’m happy that you won’t have to lose your scholarship. Really. You wouldn’t shut up about it. Are you sure you shouldn’t be in law with Olivier with your uncanny powers of persuasion?”

Without answering, Riza looks up from her plate and a knot forms in her throat when she sees him at a distance picking up a to-go order. She only notices him for a second.

“Oh,  _fuck.”_

Her eyes snap back to Rebecca. “What is it?”

Rebecca glances behind her and swivels back with a quirked, suspicious eyebrow. “Did you fuck him?”

A chunk of strawberry nearly lodges in her windpipe. Strained, she says, “I won’t dignify that with an answer. I managed through respectable means.” Technically, he bought  _her_  the coffee. “You, of all people, should know that.”

Rebecca slumps in her chair, “You’re right.”

“I’m terribly sorry to disappoint,” Riza says unapologetically.

Her friend is quiet for a moment and Riza earns a moment’s peace from her. That is, until Rebecca’s switch flips and she perks up again, leaning eagerly into the table. “You totally have the hots for him, don’t you?”

Riza frowns, brow knitting in disapproval. “No,” she responds pointedly, aggressively poking her fruit now. “Absolutely not.” Riza sees him leave and Rebecca follows her gaze.

“Riza.” Rebecca scoffs teasingly, “Did I or did I not just see you ogle at him?”

“I don’t ogle.”

“He caught your attention like the heavens above shined a light for your --”

“All right!” Riza glares. Into her plate, she mutters, “He’s not the most unfortunate looking.”

The gasp Rebecca releases is obscene, along with the flailing in her chair. “I’ve never thought I’d see the day! You have such high standards - usually. But, I mean, I can’t totally blame you. The boys here are just that -  _boys._ ”

“This is why I can’t take you anywhere.”

“ _You love me_. Okay, now that the cat’s out of the bag, sweetheart, what assignment has the hardass given you? Something tells me it’s not just a paper.”

“I’ll be helping him organize his research.”

“Scandalous…” She shimmies her shoulders. “Alone? In his office? At his place?”

“At the library. While I’m working there overnight.”

“It might as well be alone.” Rebecca’s voice is dripping in innuendo, and Riza flicks a piece of pineapple her way.

“Even  _if_  I find the man attractive, that doesn’t mean anything. There are consequences for things like that and I’d rather not risk my education for something so careless. I’m acting as an assistant until he finds a new one - and that’s all there is to it.”

And she does. With her best intentions.

Mustang arrives at the library that same night and every night the following week. Riza gives him access to the study room; this time away from where she can sneak glances from the help desk. She’s still tired from her eight o’clock classes ( _three bloody times a week - why can’t they just be combined escapes me)_  except now there’s always a warm coffee sitting on her desk with only an  _R.H._ to tell her it’s hers. She’s learned to tolerate black coffee. The sheer bitterness is more than enough to keep her awake, though Riza is hesitant to admit that there might be another part that is beginning to  _enjoy_  his classes - not for the knowledge he is imparting, but rather that he’s become somewhat of a character study for her. The margins of her notebook are littered with observations and witty responses to things he’s said in class. She’s grateful that she sits at the back of the class; he can only suspect she’s not giving him her full and rapt  _academic_ attention now that she’s conscious during his classes.

She encounters a different obstacle however.

Riza didn’t account for the consequences following Rebecca’s conversation where she verbally, and foolishly, admitted she finds him attractive. On the first night, her awareness of how she acts around him becomes keen and  _that_  makes her feel off. His presence sends off little pings in her head that tell her “ _don’t look at him too long”, “don’t laugh too hard at his jokes”, and “don’t overanalyze his gestures.”_

Ever since then, she never stays in the room with him, decidingly taking the notes back to the help desk and sorting it there -- a clever maneuver on her part. She finds the  _many_ books and articles printouts he requires.

In light of it all, Riza is eternally grateful for his professionalism. If he’s noticed her frigid behavior, he’s said no word of it. The focus the man has is something to be admired. She catches glimpses of it whenever she has to walk back into the room and it feels like she’s invading a very private and personal space. Even when she’s reshelving books, she sneaks in a look from the open door.

There’s nothing wrong with simply looking. It’s like window shopping without any of the costs.

At the end of the week, her perfect maneuver to stay out of his hair backfires when he asks her to stay with his notes. Mustang tells her he needs them to be readily available, but would still like them to get organized and, with a distracting smile, that the little colored tabs she puts on them makes it really accessible.

She doesn’t say much; she minds her own business, working diligently through his handwriting. Just like in class and the first night, he walks around the room as he thinks, stepping up to the dry-eraser board in the room, toying a marker with his mouth.

He always comes dressed comfortably, probably to gives appearances of a student, and today is no different with sweatpants and a sweater to combat the bitter cold that has settled over the city for the last week. It’s precisely when he rises from his chair that she notices, to her misfortune, that it’s a bit too… tight to be decent. She doesn’t have the heart, or enough energy for the gall to say anything and honestly, it’s none of her business - let alone inappropriate. That would be admitting that it was obvious, plain as day, calling her attention and she-

Riza takes a deep breath for focus, looking away from any and all prohibited areas. With every stride, she tries very  _very_ hard not to notice his ...endowments shifting around. By the time she is back to blankly staring at the notes, the image is already ingrained in her mind. She’s baffled by how  _it_ is clearly outlined under his pants, including which side its favoring, and she can feel her ears getting warm with a rapid pounding pulsing in them.

She’s sitting at the end of a four person desk and Riza tilts her head the opposite direction when he walks to the chair on her right. He asks her plainly, “Can you hand me the stack you have?”

Riza glances at him cautiously when he takes it, but he’s mumbling to himself sorting through the loose-leafs and she swears his habit of keeping writing utensils in his mouth is a punishment or maybe all of it is. She is a statue in her chair, looking forward, until he begins to scribble a name and a title on a sticky note. Leaving the room, she reminds herself not to spring out of her seat so quickly next time.

* * *

 

Eventually, Roy finds her in the 800 section -  _again._  She cradles a heavy tome in her hands, and is completely diverted by it. At first he’s a little annoyed - he had sent her off half an hour ago - when really, it should’ve taken her ten minutes at best. But she’s curled up against the metal shelving, completely distracted by the words in front of her, her mouth sounding them out quietly. All thoughts of chastising her flies out the window as he watches her more, watches how her fingers descend with each line, stopping in places as she murmurs to herself - the barest hints of a smile curls into her lips.

It feels like he’s intruded on something sacred, not meant for his eyes. She seems smaller in this space; completely unconcerned with what is happening around her and absorbed wholly with what’s in front of her, and it isn't until he crouches down next to her that she’s pulled out of her reverie.

Gentler than he intended, he says, “This isn’t the journal I asked for.”

She smiles guiltily, and gestures to a printout next to her, already stapled and highlighted. “There’s not much in that one,” she says by way of excuse, gripping the book tightly. “My apologies, sir, I didn’t mean to-”

Roy shakes his head and sits down next to her, resting his head against the cool shelf behind him. “You’re probably right. Yoki has always been full of his own bullshit.” He sees her relax, and it’s probably the most relaxed he’s seen her the entire week. “What I’m more interested in is a chemistry major spending her free time with the likes of-” he leans in closer to read the name on the front of the book, brushing against her fingers with his own and tipping the book forward. “e. e. Cummings?”

He ignores how that surname rolls off his tongue.

“A long-time favourite of mine,” she says quietly, almost reverently. “Poetry isn’t for everyone, but the sentences he creates are…”

Roy knows he should should tell her to get back to work. He knows he should stand up and return to his cubicle. However, not for the first time this semester, curiosity meddles in the way of reason: he taps a finger on the page. “Which one of these is your favourite?”

She hums pleasantly, flicking to the front of the book and slowly working down the index.

“I like my body when it is with your body,” she begins, still staring down at the index page, and the words alert him like splash of ice water. He thinks she’s joking until she goes on: “It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. I like your body. I like what it does, I like its hows. I like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling-firm-smooth-ness and which I will again and again and again-” She stops here, a shaky smile on her face. “It’s not-” she says quickly but he holds up a hand.

“It’s lovely,” he says tensely. “An you’ve memorised it all?”

She nods once, hesitantly, but he doesn’t discount the pride gleaming in her eyes. “Only the important ones,” she explains.

“Is there more?” he prods carefully, investigating. Roy had never been much for poetry in his younger years. They were just  _words_  in his eyes, prettily arranged at best and desperately misaligned at worst. Hearing them recited, with such reverence and affection was an entirely new experience. Fleetingly, he speculates if this is really her favorite, or if this is a play of hers.

“Yes, but-”

“I’d like to hear the rest,” he says, nudging her shoulder slightly with his own.

She exhales heavily, murmuring under her breath, her tone rising and falling as she quickly recants the first half of the poem. “...which I will again and again and  _again_  kiss, I like kissing this and that of you, I like - stroking the - shocking fuzz of your electric fur-” her cheeks are stained pink and she keeps her eyes firmly on the book in front of her. “And what-is-it comes over parting flesh...and eyes big love-crumbs - and possibly I like the thrill - of under me you quite so new.”

He’s silent for a moment and averts his eyes from her face, trying to give her some semblance of space and propriety and for himself, some composure. Her hands grips the thick book tightly, her knuckles blanching white.

The next question falls from his mouth before he can catch it. “Why is that one your favourite?”

Her head jerks around and Riza gapes at him a little inelegantly, her cheeks rapidly shifting from pink to a darker hue. She quickly scrambles to her feet, stumbling over the piles of books surrounding her and she scoops up the printout, thrusting it towards him. “I need to - to do restocking again,” she says jerkily, and Roy sighs, accepting that he may have gone a step too far.

In hindsight, he should’ve walked away.

She visibly struggles with the weight of one of the book. Her toes push down on the carpet floor and she stretches up, bearing some skin from her lower abdomen. The book wobbles from the inadequate support the tips of her fingers supply and it doesn’t take a genius to know it’s about to smack her in the face.

All in good faith, Roy closes in swiftly, standing behind her, to catch the spine of the book before it falls on her. He nudges it back into its place. She turns around and he’s blindsided by an alluring scent of perfume still lingering on her skin. Their hands touched again when he helped her, and the electrifying sensation was present there too. He looks down on her with a hooked arm over her head. Her mouth is slightly parted like she still has a line of prose she wants to recite, but she’s searching for it in his own eyes.

He’s not moving. He doesn’t want to.

The scant distance between them is all too small; too charged in the respect that there is something unspoken between them. The breathing changes for them both, hitching or holding breath or a combination of the two. It seems all too cliched that it’s a secluded area of the library in the quiet of an early morning.

Roy finds it intoxicating to be on the precipice like this and for a while, for the good innocent days he's dealt with her help, he thought he could dwell on the edge. Yet, something else, something  _carnal_ , yearns for more in that specific pocket of time, probably because it’s within grabbing distance. He admits to being ensnared by her little poetry, but it’s a slippery slope that could cost him everything. Unfortunately, he knows he has a blurring line in the sand, for inexplicable reasons, when it came to her. Trying to make sense of it in the few silent seconds they stood like that, he’d say: she's the exception, his exception.

He  _really_  should have walked away.

In the same moment she curls and tugs at the strings of his sweatshirt, Roy angles her jaw towards him. Their mouths meet, joining together like they were magnetized, crashing like waves from a turbulent tide. The fragrance from earlier wafts prominently as his fingers comb through her hair - not a perfume, a shampoo - and it only adds fuel to the fire coursing rapidly through his blood.

Theirs is not a timid or gentle kiss, it is forceful and heady, gripping at each other. He learns that she enjoys nipping at his lower lip and teases with the echo of an amusing whimper when his tongue dances with hers. She abandons the strings and grasps a handful of his sweatshirt.

Without thinking, the hands on her hips push against her. The shelf behind collides with her back and his leg pushes to part her own. To his delight, the moan-that-wouldn’t-escape finally does, wreaking havoc through his body and encouraging the small tenting in his pants to grow. But it’s only seconds before the books on the other side hit the ground. They rip from each other, wet sounds entering their ears as they do, and the severity of it dawns on them simultaneously.

Roy takes note of the coloring of her lips before he turns his shoulder away from her. He leans on a shelf with arm and a hand covering his pulsating mouth. He can hear her catching her breath. He wants to say something -  _anything._ But conflicting thoughts murks his clarity, and he cannot conceive a rational one. He’s speechless, astonished,  _unsure_. Roy stammers just trying to formulate a sentence in his own mind.

When he shifts to face her, Riza is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _i like my body when it is with your  
>  body. It is so quite new a thing.  
> Muscles better and nerves more.  
> i like your body. i like what it does,  
> i like its hows. i like to feel the spine  
> of your body and its bones,and the trembling  
> -firm-smooth ness and which i will  
> again and again and again  
> kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,  
> i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz  
> of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes  
> over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,_
> 
> _and possibly i like the thrill_
> 
> _of under me you so quite new_


	4. they come with girls who bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're blown away with all the support you're all giving!!! every comment, kudos and bookmark fuels our writing some more <33
> 
> art by the incredibly talented **[b-griveros](http://b-griveros.tumblr.com/)** @ tumblr
> 
> (e.e. cummings, The boys i mean are not refined)

The kiss isn’t remarkable.

He’s a little clumsy and overbearing. He’s leaning on her, trapping her shirt under sweaty hands, and isn’t exuberating confidence or boyish cockiness like he was before. Riza wonders if it was just talk, if he knows what he’s doing; is he nervous or overly-eager? She’s been accused of being intimidating before, but she was keen to the way he looked at her across the room earlier that night and was egged on to approach.

It’s not the worst kiss she’s experienced, truth be told. That disastrous honour goes to Robert what’s-his-face in secondary school whose snake-like tongue damn near choked her, implying that was the way the French did it. It was not and Riza can’t expect frat-boy Chad to know either. _But there is someone who-_

 **Nonetheless** , this one is softer, but sloppy from intoxication. His breath is rich in beer and cheap coconut rum; a combination that makes Riza feel a little woozy when her head tilts against his own.  There’s a bit too much saliva around her mouth for her liking and the clammy hands around waist slip and pinches a patch of skin against a countertop where she inhales sharply. The air she takes in is not a certain natural musk mingling with the smell of books, but of a drunken student at a house party with too much vomit and not enough weed; fragrant with cooling pizza and the ripeness of sweat.

Chad, if that’s even his name, stammers out a string of apologies and she shifts him closer to shut him up. His tongue pleasantly slide along her lips. She sighs as she allows her mouth to open and shivers when his hands shift from her waist to run along the underside of her chest. Buzzed from her high, he’s warm against her; _everything_ is a bit warm and hazy, and every touch is pleasantly amplified.

Riza follows the length of his hardly-defined arms and links her fingers behind his neck. She feels him smile onto her mouth. She is weightless as his hands dig into her thighs and sets her down on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Faintly, she hears the sound of empty solo cups clattering to the floor and the leering whoops and cheers of her peers around her as she leans back, enjoying how his teeth occasionally scrape against the skin of her neck. Her fingers try to rake through his hair, but its too short, and she can’t pinpoint why she’s disappointed.

The bass of the music resonates through her blood and Riza allows herself to exist within this moment, with warm, wet tongues and hands that almost let her pretend.

She goes very still as her companion shifts his attention to the buttons of her shirt, murmuring something that she’s sure is meant to sound sexy but the cadence is all wrong. His lips are the wrong pressure on her own. The taste in her mouth is no longer _nice_ ; it’s bitter in a rotten way. Frustratingly, she realises she can’t just sweep last night under the rug and never think about again. The phantom sensations haunts her like some libidinous specter, teasing her about what she really wants and what she currently has.

He’s still fumbling with the buttons on her shirt and goes to once more claim her mouth, but the moment is gone. It’s like she’s been doused with a bucket of ice water - nothing about the party is appealing anymore, and the stickiness that his hands leave on her make Riza want to shed her skin in its entirety. She shoves his face away from her and quickly slides out of his grip, ignoring the spluttering and jeering behind her. Angry tears prickle the corners of her eyes as they begin to form. She damns the day she walked into Chem Lit.

She slips into the bathroom, locking the door behind her, and leans against the door. She looks a mess in the mirror above the sink: her makeup is smeared from his lips and her hair has lost the slight curls that Rebecca had spent her afternoon working on. She is _tired_ , more than anything. She’s quiet as she finds a facecloth from under the sink and runs it under the water, carefully wiping away any trace of smeared lipstick or foundation. It’s cool against her skin and Riza holds it to her neck, glaring at the faint bruises that the boy had given her. They flare in color against her pale skin.

She wishes that Rebecca hadn’t managed to convince her that she needed to ‘let loose’. If anything, she was probably the worse out of the two of them now - Riza was fairly certain that Rebecca had never managed to make out with any of her professors, and enjoy it, and _fucking_ think about it for every waking moment.

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath, tossing the facecloth into the bathtub next to her, it hits the porcelain with a wet slap, and she runs a hand through her fringe roughly. Tomorrow she can sit down and think about what all this means; right now she has the edges of a headache and a sudden urge to be curled underneath her duvet.

She straightens and rebuttons her shirt where what had been clumsily undone in front of the mirror. In need of a reality check, she smacks her cheeks lightly. She looks _good_ but...enough to risk his job - hell, his entire career over? Riza knows she is no great beauty in the effortless way Olivier manages to be, and she doesn’t have the confidence that makes Rebecca glitter like a star wherever she goes.

And what about her? He can switch school or even find something in his field, but she’d be marred from the scandal. Whether it’s the high or the sexual frustration, that information doesn’t do enough to deter her. Not completely. Hovering over the sink, she chants in her head that it should - it definitely should. It’s why she let herself be convinced to be dolled up and find the nearest opportunity showing some promise of a decent romp.

Her hand stills over her mouth, hovering above her cupid’s bow. “A mistake, a stupid mistake,” she murmurs, watching herself, unblinking and unswaying. A little part of her erupts in denial; _he noticed you in class, he noticed you in the hall, he noticed your name, he noticed your exhaustion, he noticed you and you and **only** you._

But she’s the one who ran.

The bathroom door slams behind her. The party has quieted down as she carefully walks over half-conscious bodies crowding the hallway, keeping an eye out for a riotous mess of curls. The “Chad” she left behind is now off in the corner macking on some other girl and Riza is not devastated, but quietly relieved.

She spies Rebecca not-quite-dozing on another student’s chest and decides that now is probably the best time to leave. Riza bends down to poke her best friend in the cheek. Rebecca grumbles incoherently, her face scrunching up like a toddler. Her smokey eyes have smeared to resemble a panda, and judging by the lack of lipstick on her face compared to the boy she’s resting on, Riza knows that now is the best time to extract them both.

“Let’s go now ‘Becca,” she says softly, pulling on her friend’s wrist. Barely anybody is stirring in the room. Some top 20’s song is playing in the background and from her peripheral, there’s a couple on the two-seater who are doing their best impression of how drunk people don’t manage to have sex.

“I don’ wann’ go..” Rebecca slurs as she stretches out her arms. Riza grasps her hands firmly and pulls her up in one clean movement. It’s a maneuver she’s well-used to doing, generally at these sorts of parties.

“We’ll get Macca’s on the way back,” she promises, slinging an arm protectively around her friend’s shoulders, and Riza doesn’t want any trouble in trying to leave. She was lucky enough to remove herself when she did from her own little almost-hookup, and Rebecca’s chosen victim was a _lot_ bigger than either of them.

“ _Yo quiero Taco Bell_ ,” a random girl slurs from the floor, leaning against the side of the sofa and trying (but failing) to stare the two of them down. She would look a lot more intimidating if there wasn’t the familiar stain of beer on her shirt and the glassy, unfocused look in her eyes as she struggles to raise her head to look at them properly.

“Me no hablo español, señorita,” Rebecca manages, stumbling over her feet as they try to avoid another passed-out reveler on the floor. “Hey Ri,” she tugs at the front of Riza’s shirt, “I want a churro.”

"I got tacos for you. _VAMONOS_!" Riza doesn’t know what that means or implicates so she ignores her.

“EVERYBODY LET’S GO,” another drunk student suddenly shouts, and it takes Riza a moment to realise why the phrasing and cadence to those words are so familiar, and _why_ is it suddenly very important to leave now before-

“C’MON LET’S GET TO IT-” Already more students have been roused from their daze, blinking and groping at the ground for purchase. Riza pulls more insistently on her friend’s torso pleading with whatever was listening to her to have some pity.

“I KNOW THAT WE CAN DO IT-” The room choruses back, almost shrieking on the last syllable.

“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” Rebecca crows triumphantly to the shambling crowd, and there’s a beat of silence before the room erupts in a cacophony of names being shouted. Riza all but wrenches them out the front door swearing like a sailor as Rebecca cackles like a madwoman all the way to her Big Mac.

* * *

The house is still when she and Rebecca stumble in at two in the morning. The only reminder that Olivier had remembered the two of them were gone was the not-so-surreptitiously-placed packet of painkillers and glasses of water. Rebecca immediately beelines for the medication, messily gulping down the water and laughing in that childlike way that all drunk people seem to do when they think they’re doing a great job of pretending to be sober.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Rebecca stage whispers, swaying next to the counter as she struggles to undo her ponytail. “Did you have a good time?”

Riza nods distractedly, moving around her flatmate to put the rest of their fast food in the fridge. She’s under no illusion that all of it will mysteriously vanish by the time lunch comes around later on today, but Riza is content to let herself imagine that maybe Rebecca will learn not to steal her fries.

Riza kicks off her wedges and bumps her shoulder into her friend’s. “G’night,” she says, smiling as Rebecca slumps inelegantly over the counter, talking softly to the cool marble about how _wonderful_ and _cold_ it is on her face.

She ducks into the bathroom to grab her makeup wipes before she enters her room; it’s still a mess from the impromptu fashion show Rebecca made her do before they left for the night. Riza quickly puts away the illicit drugs into the unmarked bag that lives at the bottom of her stationery drawer. The wipes are refreshing on her face as she quickly scrubs at her eyes and eyebrows, shimmying as best she can out of her jeans one-handed. It’s slow work, but eventually Riza manages to kick them off, digging around for the old shirt that has become her pyjamas. It’s a ratty old thing, the logo of Eastern U long faded but Riza can’t take it upon herself to throw it away. It was the last physical reminder she had that she had earned the scholarship that had paved her way out of the sticks that was her hometown; that she had found a better path for herself than what her father would have her believe.

She throws her top and bra in the direction of her laundry hamper, but isn’t too concerned when she hears them hit what suspiciously sounds like the vodka ice bottles that Rebecca sculled during her “pregame”. Riza crawls onto her bed and fumbles around for the latch on her top window, just pushing it open enough to let the air in.

Riza stretches out luxuriously on her bed, enjoying the cool air of her room slowly filtering in - the party had been too warm, too many bodies pressed together. She can still feel the stickiness that always seems to linger on her skin whenever she makes out with someone, but she can already hear Rebecca shuffling down towards the bathroom, singing tunelessly. Tomorrow she can have a steaming hot bath and deep condition her hair, but all Riza wants to do right now is lie still and let her mind enjoy the effects of her haze.

Her thoughts eventually crowd in her head once more: she had never been very good at just enjoying a high for what it was, and she’s always been an overthinker to a fault. She can still feel the sensation of the student’s lips on her own, warm and soft but not in the way that makes her toes curl, but more in the way that makes her think of something remarkably more _flaccid_ -

Riza groans, shifting suddenly and trying to ignore what she didn’t want to acknowledge before - the blessed haze certainly helped her ignore the elephant in the room, but now in the quiet of her room, with only the muted sound of the shower across the hallway, Riza knows she can’t lie to herself in this state.

What happened between them is _wrong_ \- on many levels. He is her professor. Her employer, unofficially. A disciplinary committee waiting to happen. The end of her scholarship as she knew it. A really _fucking good kisser_.

She rolls over on her bed once more, hugging a pillow close to her chest. She feels like a teenager all over again and not an adult capable of critical thinking. Part of her knows that she should just _talk_ to him but even that thought is enough to make her blush crimson as she imagines just how that particular meeting would go.

 _There’s nothing wrong with imagining though_ , she tells herself, running a hand roughly through her bangs. Nothing wrong with imagining how his hands rest on her hips, and how his fingers draw lazy circles over her skin. It’s not as if _she’s_ doing anything wrong - it’s a free country and she’s free to think about whatever she likes -

 _Not really though,_ she thinks, dragging a finger over her lips; her eyes close involuntarily at the sensation. _No, this is different, this isn’t poor judgment._

 _He wouldn’t be like this with anyone else,_ she wishes _hopes_ **pleads**.

The thought terrifies her as much as it excites. Riza knows already what his lips taste like, full and breathtakingly so just by remembering it. She knows his hands, large and roughened slightly, and how it feels on her hips. His hair is messy in a way that makes her want to smooth it out of his face. His eyes are the dark places where she wants to become lost.

Later, she’ll blame the _boy_ from before, the one with clumsy hands and a warm tongue that could only sate her momentarily. It wasn’t his fault - he couldn’t compare with a _man_ that seemed to set her whole body aflame with the scarcest of touches.

As her fingers dip into her folds she’s shocked at how wet she already is; normally it takes a bit more coaxing from her to slip into herself as easily as she does this time but it feels _wrong_ in a way.

There’s too much of her and not enough at the same time, and she gasps as her fingers slide into her with barely any resistance. Her thumb rubs quickly over her clit and her other hand pulls roughly at her nipples through the shirt, the fabric pulling roughly against the raised buds in ways that makes her sigh. She becomes hungrier for _more,_ for something she can’t give herself.

She imagines his lips at her throat and hands that know what to do with her against her thighs, pushing her legs open and she imagines his mouth tasting her there, devouring her whole. She imagines him whispering to her in that strange lilt she sometimes hears coming out in the early morning lectures, a voice that hints at something deeper, something she wants to uncover and keep for herself.

She can’t imagine him inside her though, because her fingers are too slight, and she cannot unlearn the pressure she felt when he backed her into the bookcase.

It's already too late for her as she realises that she's been gasping his name, her fingers slick with arousal as she feels the mouth-opening surge of pleasure bloom over her body.

The room is breezeless as she comes down from her high, chest heaving and shivering. Her head rolls to the side, catching her reflection in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. She's a pretty picture, with flushed skin and pink lips that she can imagine all too well wrapped around his cock.  
  
"I'm fucked," she laments, roughly wiping her slicked hand against her shirt.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _the boys i mean are not refined  
>  they go with girls who buck and bite  
> they do not give a fuck for luck  
> they hump them thirteen times a night_
> 
> _one hangs a hat upon her tit  
>  one carves a cross on her behind  
> they do not give a shit for wit  
> the boys i mean are not refined_
> 
> _they come with girls who bite and buck  
>  who cannot read and cannot write  
> who laugh like they would fall apart  
> and masturbate with dynamite_
> 
> _the boys i mean are not refined  
>  they cannot chat of that and this  
> they do not give a fart for art  
> they kill like you would take a piss_
> 
> _they speak whatever's on their mind  
>  they do whatever's in their pants  
> the boys i mean are not refined  
> they shake the mountains when they dance_


	5. have you no thought, o dreamer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys give us LITERAL LIFE OK?? honestly. let's get to it.
> 
> the lovely bean [reole](https://reole.tumblr.com/) drew us some art for this chapter! go give them some love!
> 
> (Walt Whitman, Are you the new person drawn toward me?)

 

Sunday morning, he wakes up in Central - putting a three hour train ride between them; away from East City, away from instructing, his research. Away from his problems.

It’s out of character for him to run, having done so in earnest only once before; if anything, he’s the kind of person who prefers to meet them head on. But he’s doused in sweat and his... _problem_ is eager to make itself known every morning poking conspicuously through the sheets. The kind of problem that throbs and _aches_ and is excruciatingly sensitive to any kind of contact, any movement, until it’s either relieved or he washes it away. This morning, he’s tired of the cold showers.

Shame isn’t something that enters his thoughts. There is only the rhythm of the strokes and the water pelting his head, streaming from his tensed shoulders down the muscles on his back. What started timidly is now fervent when he borrows the woman making a recurring appearance in his dreams.

Roy doesn’t put a face to her. Within his imagination, she’s petite and shorter in stature than him - of course, she would be as she is... on her _knees_ \- but Roy knows instinctively that she’s the perfect height for him to rest his chin on. He’s stroking her hair as his fingers fasten tightly against the grout of the shower tiles, but not as tight as the grip her lips have on him. He thinks about that kiss, the texture of her lips so soft melding with his, and he wonders why it stays with him, why his mind insists on imagining more. He grabs fistfuls of her wet, flaxen hair, rougher this time, and guides her with a more demanding pace. He points to deeper places she can open up without using any fingers, grunting in tandem with the pace when she readily obliges.

She opens her eyes, brown and bright and looking right at him. It takes over. He imagines she takes it all as she can and a little of his seed dribbles over her mouth and it's the prettiest damn sight he’s seen that morning.

Alone in the shower, he hunches over himself; gasping. By the time he catches his breath, the water is turning cold, and Roy chuckles bitterly at his mess going down the drain. What he wouldn’t give to dissolve right there to escape what he feels is inescapable.

The cooler temperatures regulate his overzealous heartbeat and for the umpteenth time, he weighs the pros and cons, getting as far as he did all the other times, and pushes the absurd idea back because these things never end well ethically, morally, emotionally.

Roy exits the guest bedroom, half-dried but fully dressed, to welcome the morning already marred with guilt. He walks towards the busy kitchen noisy with the running of a sink, a sizzling frypan, and a toddler using her high chair as drums to demand breakfast from her father standing in front of a stovetop. He greets as any polite guest would: “You know, if you had shut that thing off I might’ve had more than two minutes of warm water.

Maes turns the faucet off with a bit more force than necessary and bids Roy a good morning with a glare. “No, it’s definitely not your twenty minute shower.”

Roy ignores him and instead ruffles the bangs of the kid, kisses her cheek so that she shies away like she’s being tickled, and says, “Good morning, Elicia.” The toddler squeaks out a good morning as she’s picked up from her chair and placed on his lap. “Did Gracia leave already?”

“You just missed her. Her fancy schmancy hospital brunch starts in fifteen,” Maes explains to him, depositing a large plate and a smaller, brightly colored plastic plate in front of him.  reproaches him from the stove. “Besides, since when do you indulge in long, warm showers?”

Roy covers the three year-old’s ears. “I was uh-” he clears his throat “-taking care of business.” He leaves it deliberately ambiguous. Elicia babbles something too fast for him to pick up on, her tiny hands outstretched and trying to grasp the food in front of her. He helps cut up her fruit into bite-size pieces.

“You should know better. I’m here for you and I’ll always lend you a hand.” Maes sits with his own plate. “Then we might’ve saved some of that warm water.”

He smirks. “No, no, no, no. This required... something different. A bit beyond your skill set.”

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Maes points repeatedly with the pronged end of his fork. “You got yourself a lady, didn’t you?”

He deflates a little, sighing. “No…”

“A dude?!”

“Maes-”

“Because, you know me, I don’t judge-”

“Hughes, it’s nothing like that.”

Maes leans into the table towards his kid, “What do you think, puddleduck? Do you think Uncle Roy has a girlfriend?”

Elicia is still happily wiggling about from her food and stares at her father with fingers in her mouth then turns to scrutinize Roy with her green eyes. Slowly at first and then incriminatingly, she moves her head in a vigorous nod and looks back to her father, beaming. “Yeah!”

Maes laughs and enthusiastically grabs Elicia from Roy’s hold, rubbing her cheek against his. “Good job, Elicia!” He sings to her, replacing her in the high chair. “With your intuition, you could be the best detective!”

“You just told her yesterday she’s going to be the best archeologist for digging in the sandbox.”

In his typical fashion, he proclaims, “She can be whatever she wants!”

“You’re going to confuse the kid.”

“Or-!” Maes feeds Elicia a piece of bacon. “She’ll know she can choose whatever she wants, because she can’t ever disappoint her dad.”

Roy shrugs and stares at his breakfast. He can feel the stare coming from his friend and he doesn’t want to meet it. There isn’t anyone quite like Maes Hughes who can bother him into getting him to spit things out, so he tries his best to focus on the scrambled eggs in front of him.

There’s a silence, or there would have been if not for the unsuspecting child talking to her food. Roy almost laughs eating the fluffy eggs in that almost silence. Unwisely, he thinks Maes has let the topic drop.

“Is she a student?”

Roy chokes on a mouthful of toast and egg and coughs to dislodge the food that had gone down his windpipe. His neck is strained and struggling, he manages, “I think you’re watching a little bit too much of my mother’s novelas.”

Maes chuckles, but it’s not in the jovial sense; it’s the cut-the-bullshit chuckle. His friend leans into the table, grabbing his elbows. He knows that pause. The pause tells him Maes isn’t about to mince words. “You get here on the earliest train coming into Central Station. Looking like shit, like you’ve been up all night. And then you’re quiet. Pensive. Like you did something wrong. And, at first I thought you might’ve gotten into some trouble, which is silly because how much trouble could you possibly get into without being able to get yourself out.” He looks at Roy gravely with the barest hitch at the corner of his lip, like he’s got him cornered.

Roy looks up like a child who’s been reprimanded.

Maes takes a sip out of his coffee cup and is silent like he’s enjoying keeping Roy under this exposing spotlight. “But now Gracia isn’t here and you still won’t tell me and you always do this weird _embarrassment_ thing when it comes to talking about the women in your life. So it’s a girl you can’t have…She’s either married or a student. But I think we both know you aren’t a homewrecker.”

His mouth goes inexplicably dry.

“How am I doing?”

He mutters, “Terribly.”

And then, the entire interrogation facade falls through when even Elicia is no longer eating undoubtedly sensing the tension. “Oh come on - I’m right on the money so tell me!”

“No - because there’s nothing to tell and I have a train to catch soon.” Roy peers at his watch. “And if I leave now I can get at the station six hours early.”

Maes snorts. “The last time you said that you were leaving town and Greta was packing her things the next day.” He doesn’t say anything and he’s suddenly lost his appetite. “All I’m saying is that I know you, Roy. Sometimes better than you know yourself. You haven’t even gone to see your mom who harangues me every chance she gets. Just... Cancel your classes, otherwise it’s just gonna blow up in your face again.”

He should, he really should. But he’s stubborn too and won’t usually accept help until he’s strong armed into taking it. “I won’t interrupt your dad-ing.”

“I think I’ll be able to handle another child for a day or two,” Maes deadpans while wiping Elicia mouth.

Roy frowns, but admits to himself that it’s tempting. It’s painfully clear that this isn’t something that would secede after giving into his baser desires, Whatever it is, he can tell it would work itself up into a frenzy until he ultimately makes the entire situation worse than it already is. He needs the time to think clearly - to think with his head and not with what’s in between his legs.  “I’ll be fine,” he says carefully, watching as Elicia digs into her yoghurt with gusto.

He can’t even convince himself.

* * *

In the early afternoon, her phone lights up with an email. She takes an imaginary foot to squash the little butterflies she gets all because his last name illuminating on her phone. His email reads:

_Subject: CHEM306 Sec 001-005 Monday’s class cancelled._

 

_All,_

_Class is cancelled for tomorrow due to some personal matters. Use this time to think about your next topic discussion. Office hours will resume as usual next week._

Curled up on the couch, she sinks even lower into the cushions, putting aside her textbook and looks into the middle distance with a small frown. Riza dislikes the disappointment the trickles down her spine, but she dislikes the questions popping in her head even more.

It isn’t a surprise when she doesn’t see him walk in the library that Monday night. But she is on Tuesday. Riza doesn’t want to count the number of times she looked at the glass double doors expecting someone to walk in. She stares hard into the Inorganic Chemistry textbook but the words don’t stick and she’s bothered. She hates feeling like this because out of all the irrational, reckless things she could do while still keeping her academic career and dignity, she chooses to keep pining over him.  

She doesn’t know what she wants, but she feels there’s plenty left unsaid on her tongue that he’s placed there.

Almost five days of radio silence and Wednesday comes too soon. She is contemplating far too much to even stick to her already terrible sleeping schedule. She’s displeased that he’s the cause for all of this, studying the tiles on the floor the entire way to class. Walking through the threshold, she glances up briefly, fearing that a sign is posted on her back announcing that she knows what he tastes like, but he’s writing about the different “search strategies” with his back to her.

Riza makes for her seat and pauses for a heartbeat on the steps along the side of the room. On her desk, a coffee cup, unmarked, is there - waiting for her. Students are slowly trickling in and she sneaks another glance, but he doesn’t notice her. Throughout class, she’s figuratively scratching her head just staring the earthy, aromatic beverage. She doesn’t need it to stay up; her heart is beating too fast and not quite invested in the outline for plethora of options to sift through credible academic work as her instructor drones on.

When he’s absent that Wednesday night, she puts it to rest and that was that. Only a really good kiss and ending it with the way it started: just coffee. Riza attributes the strange loneliness to the lack of student traffic - that’s all.

Except that he’s there on Thursday and everything is jumbled once again. Mustang hands her a predetermined list in terms of what he needs from her and it becomes clear that she crossed a line. When it settles, when he settles in the room, he’s very distant, polite. They’re polite and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t a little distant herself. Both of them seem to have independently come to the conclusion that The Kiss and anything related to The Kiss will not be addressed. For the most part, it’s not a bad system; Riza thinks this is probably the best way to get through it.

At all.

He’s not gonna bring it up; therefore, neither will she. It’ll remain as it is to save her from embarrassment.

It works, for a couple hours. It’s easy to separate this person - _Professor Mustang -_ from the man who backed her into a bookcase and kissed as he drove a knee in between her legs. It’s easy to look for the books he asks for; she can hide in the aisles of the library and carry out her work in peace. Unfortunately, something still itches.

It’s not easy to ignore the plain expanse of his back when she inevitably returns, arms laden down with heavy tomes. He doesn’t bothered to changing out of the dress shirt he wears for class: the cotton stretches deliciously against the length of this shoulders and tapers down his waist. He’s already rolled up the sleeves to his elbows and the skin that is bared gives her pause. She shakes away the thought before it can plant itself and take root. He is being as professional as he can be in this capacity; it’s only fair that she responds in turn.

For some reason, she feels constantly on her toes the entire night and at the end of it, Riza doesn’t know why she thinks this is a good idea, beyond trying to justify it as a _kind_ act, but the words spill out of her before she can think them through properly.

“I hope everything is okay with you in regards to canceling class,” she says, placing grabbing the books next to him on the desk. She thinks nothing of it until the silence between them stretches uncomfortably. She hates to admit that she’s stalling, putting the onus to give her a response. _If I can be mature about it so can he_ , she thinks somewhat viciously.

“I was visiting some old friends,” he answers finally, an edge to his tone as he stands up and begins to collect his pens and notebooks from where they’ve all scattered to. It’s finality, Riza realises as she puts two and two together and she scrambles to explain.

“No, sir, I wasn’t meaning to pry, I just-” she falters as he stills before her, He’s looking at her with an expression she can’t decipher - all she knows is that there’s a wildness to his eyes like _before_ , and his hands are trembling ever-so slightly as they grip his laptop and messenger bag tightly. She isn’t sure how she’s crossed another of his invisible lines again so quickly, but his stare makes her feel like a little kid all over again. It’s _humiliating_.

“Goodnight Miss Hawkeye,” he says quickly, before brushing past her to leave.

* * *

Riza doesn’t question why Rebecca is up at such an ungodly hour eating chicken noodles and watching reruns of an old soap opera when she returns home - the sleep schedule of a university student is about as regular as a nutritious meal - and considering her own sleep schedule (or rather, the lack of it), Riza doesn’t feel like chastising her.  

It does present an opportunity, however. Rebecca being awake means that Rebecca is available to partake in bitching and gossiping, and Riza is at her limit at keeping these at-war thoughts and feelings to herself. She curls up next to Rebecca with her own pathetic breakfast: a bowl of generic chocolate puff cereal.

“‘Becca? I have a question.” She doesn’t mean to sound as pitiful as she sounds and Rebecca turns to look at her properly. Riza notices her friend’s makeup from last night and she smiles with endearment.

“I might have an answer, but I can’t help you if it’s about this show because I’m as lost as you are.”

“No,” Riza starts, but the words settle in her mouth. It’s so foreign to her: to be the one talking about something other than school or work. “Say, a boy kisses you or you kiss him. As a matter of fact, it’s irrelevant. You two _kiss_ \- and then, nothing. Silence.”

“There’s a _boy?”_ she asks with fiendish glee. Riza groans, and shovels more cocoa pops into her mouth.

“There _might_ be a boy,” she says finally. It feels strange to suddenly put this out into the open: that there is? Was? _Could be?_ She hates that she _wishes_ that there was; hates more that deep down she knows she’s built this up to be greater than what it actually ended up being.

Rebecca puts down her half-eaten bowl of noodles,  “Spill.”

Riza tells her, simply replacing the fact that she was crushing on her professor with the boy from the party. Rebecca had been almost blacked out for the majority of that party so Riza feels secure in the lie. She tells her about the tensions between them, the explosive kiss, and how he seems to wildly flip between keeping her at arms length and then doing little gestures that coax her back in.

Rebecca listens with the air of someone who has seen it all before, and the lack of shock in her reactions is comforting to Riza. It wasn’t just her then, making this out to be bigger than it actually was.

“What do you think?” Riza asks, her cereal bowl forgotten and soggy next to Rebecca’s congealed noodles.

Rebecca hums, and bites her bottom lip in thought. “I hate to say it Ri, but you’re clearly crushing on him-”

“No shit Sherlock-”

Her friend puffs her cheeks out in frustration. “If you were anybody else Ri, I would tell you to find someone else to fuck and get it out of your system. But you’re already in too deep with this guy. He _clearly_ likes you - no student can afford to buy two coffees and if he’s giving up his stupid almond-milk-with-extra-foam to woo you then you’re clearly more than just a passing distraction to him as well.”

“But why does he keep shoving me away? There’s no rhyme or reason to why or when he does it-”

“There will be to him,” Rebecca says wisely. “If he’s indecisive but still buying you shit, he likes you. There’s something on his end that’s making him second-guess. He’s _not_ second-guessing you Ri, he’s second-guessing himself. Or someone is, at the very least.”

* * *

When she walks into class that morning, she spies a takeaway cup placed on her defacto spot. She approaches it cautiously, aware of the other students slowly trickling in for the lecture. There’s no note scribbled onto it this time. Just a plain cup of coffee that Riza is grudgingly having to admit smells wonderful. However, she pushes it to the next seat over with her index finger, like she’s scared to touch it properly. In a way, she is. She doesn’t like how her heart leaps at the sight of a fucking cup of coffee - and not in the way that university students are meant to have their heart’s leap whenever they see, hear or smell java - no, not in this case. There is meaning in this innocuous cup of coffee, but Riza is tired of the dancing and skirting around each other, the attraction and subsequent repel. Rebecca had been right - she felt that she had made her position perfectly clear.

Riza wasn’t sure how much more she could plainly state her position anymore than she already had. The way she had gripped at his hair and moaned into his mouth had spoken volumes, surely.

She grabs the heavy textbook from her bag and sets it up to stand on the desk, shielding the front of the lecture theatre from view. If she rests her head on her hands, she can’t even see the top of the two-story whiteboard.

Which means she she will _certainly_ be unable to see her professor.

More students are filing in now, yawning and shambling up the steps of the lecture hall. She slumps down in her seat further, resting her head in the crook of her elbow. The sounds of the lecture hall fade into the background, and all Riza is left with is the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee and the warmth of the morning sun hitting her back through the large windows at the back of the class.

* * *

She wakes with a start, and the classroom is eerily quiet. It’s no longer comfortably warm; as Riza lifts her head, she realises that it is empty, the big double doors at the side of the classroom left wide open. The coffee next to her has gone, instead replaced by a stapled stack of paper.

His writing is familiar enough even as she’s still blinking the sleep out of her eyes, but that soon changes as she reads her grade.

The ‘A-’ has been crossed out, replaced with a horrifying ‘C’.

_Please organise a time to visit my office so that we can discuss how to improve your essay topic._

Riza sees red.

She’s out of the lecture theatre in a flash, uncaring how she must look to any bystanders right now. _Organise a time?_ Riza snarls. If he thinks he can just get away with -

She finds herself standing outside his closed office door, slightly out of breath from walking so briskly across the campus and something else that she doesn’t want to positively identify. She grips the strap of her bag tighter in her hands and Riza takes a moment to breathe properly, deeply.

She feels like she’s barreling towards something inevitable here - that every step she has taken - drinking the first coffee of many; reciting the poetry; letting him cage her between his arms and dip his head down _just so_...it’s all been guiding her towards this moment. She doesn’t want to call it fate, but Riza’s doubtful that any deliberate choice on her part would have made an iota of difference for what was going on between them.

For all her justifications that he was a _man_ and that was why she liked him so much, liked the hints of authority and control that slipped through every now and then when he was with her: that wasn’t the case here. He was being a _coward_ , running away from his problems instead of addressing them like an adult.

Riza wasn’t going to give him that chance.

She wrenches the door open and storms inside. “You better have a _fucking good reason_ for dropping my grade, _sir_.” She knows she must still look windblown and flushed from her dash across campus but she can’t find it in herself to care particularly much.

He’s standing by his bookcase, jaw open in shock as she shuts the door and all but thrusts the graded essay proposal into his face. “Miss Hawkeye, I don’t think-”

“ _Not Hawkeye,”_ she grinds out, all but throwing her bag to the floor as she flourishes the stapled paper once more in his face. “You don’t get to pull that crap with me when I _know_ this isn’t about my proposal!”

His jaw clacks shut and he considers her with a shrewd gaze. “Then what is it about? You’ll need to enlighten me, _Riza_.” Her name is all sorts of sin rolling off his tongue the way it does and Riza hates that she falters a little, momentarily distracted by the way his mouth sounds out her name.

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. It pains her that she can’t figure him out for the life of her. “You’re the one who kissed me and then ran away for the weekend. How am I meant to interpret that?”

Roy shifts uneasily. “Well, I-”

“No excuses,” she says firmly. “We can’t _not_ talk about this, whichever way this goes, and I think I deserve an explanation at the very least because - _why are you looking at me like that?”_

All traces of irritation are gone; he’s suddenly looking at her like there’s a secret he revels in when he sees her. He leans against his bookcase, running a hand through his hair almost - dare she say - nervously? His entire posture has shifted, relaxed, and Riza suddenly realises just how close she’s standing to him: the sandalwood of his cologne is intoxicating and heady and if she moves even an inch closer she thinks she will be able to spot his pulse jumping on his neck.

“I want an explanation,” she reiterates, crossing her arms across her chest, essay proposal crumpled and forgotten. There’s a beat and Roy nods, pushing himself off the ledge of the bookcase, moving towards the door. The lock clicks with some finality but Riza doesn’t find the action scary.

“My only question is,” he begins, moving back and mirroring her position of crossed arms. “Why are you doing this right now? Why here, with me? Any other girl in her right mind would be going straight to the Dean with this.”

The question blindsides her. Truthfully, she doesn’t know if she can answer that herself - at least, not without feeling a great deal of shame while doing so. “That’s not an answer,” she says stubbornly.

“I think you already know, don’t you?” He extracts the crumpled proposal from her fingers, lingering over the digits as he peels them off one by one. The paper is ripped in places and he tuts, unfurling the folds and placing it down on his desk carefully. “You’re a bright kid. In this class particularly.” His other hand is still holding onto the tips of her fingers, curling his fingers around her own. He’s warm, and Riza suppresses a shiver as he shifts closer, pulling her hand close to his chest. He grips her fingers firmly and cocks his head to the side, considering her.

“The short version of the answer is that I’d like to fuck you, Riza Hawkeye, because it’s clear that you’d like to fuck me.”

She’s backed up against the desk and sighing into his mouth before she’s given a moment to register the shivers of pleasure and goosebumps taking over her. She grips the shirt pressed against his chest. His lips are still new to her in the way that they are careful, yet pressing; hungry, but contained. He doesn’t need to ask her to open her mouth because she does so willingly when he runs fingers through her hands, making her think about how else they can make her feel and the noises she’d make for him.  

She’s warm all over; hot in places she wants him to touch. She wants what she couldn’t have before, what she couldn’t get from the _boy._ The saying always goes it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission and she’s more than ready to get on her knees and beg for it. The temptation touches her thigh, his stirrings hiding behind his slacks. His hands are on her hips but they never roam further than they’re allowed. Every now and then, thumbs will caress small spanses of her skin and it only sent waves of heat, rippling throughout. He groans through their kiss when she touches delicately over the fabric of his slacks.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he tells her. It sounds like a thinly veiled challenge to her, a dare, because even though she has twined herself around his body, it still feels like he is holding back. He doesn’t shy from her bold advances, but equally he doesn’t push her. She knows it’s not meant as an insult to assume her experience but she didn’t find him attractive because he was cautious and carefully considered each and every choice he made - hell, if that had been the case, neither of them would be here right now, pressed up against one another and trying to keep their voices quiet in his office. She wants the man who she catches glimpses of, who promises snap decisions and no regrets.

“Why don’t you show me?” She feels him growing harder with each stroke of her palm and a million scenarios populates in her imagination of what she can do with it - of what she wants to do with him.  She nudges one hand of his up her shirt. Her leg slightly hinges to the side and he doesn’t hesitate to slip from under her shirt, grab the bend of her knee, and push back with the other just enough on the desk that her feet levitate over the carpet. It’s very unladylike, the way she’s sitting on his desk, with her legs spread for him. Only her panties and the flimsy pleat of her skirt are her only defenses standing and judging by the way his hand is coasting up her thigh, she figures that won’t be for long.

Yes, she can very much see his appeal. Up until now, she hadn’t given it much thought. It was only conjecture, but she imagines a man of his attributes, physical and intellectual, can attract girls like her to unfurl themselves for him. Before she was too tired or too flustered -  vacillating like a needle on a moral spectrum and now, she feels it with the pressure of his mouth, the tease of his tongue, the sharp exhales she gives from it, and the ripples over his clothes.

But there is another element.

She arrives on this conclusion as she’s untucking his shirt and her hands want to _know_ Roy Mustang. He is still very much an enigma. She hardly knows anything about him apart from his academic passions and what’s printed on his syllabus. They are only pieces. He piques a curiosity in her and she embraces, for the first time as a Chemistry major, the fascination of a scientist at the brink of discovery. How does a man no older than thirty with lip-biting muscles hiding underneath white cotton end up in academia? What brings someone as charismatic and intelligent as him to leap dangerous chasms and slip under the skirts of his student making her sigh as he caresses her neck? What drives him to touch her over her small clothes thus soaking the fabric from her own arousal? There is an ache for that information, but none so needy or demanding as the present ache in between her legs where he strokes and teases.

Riza, fevered and blushing, murmurs a simple plea. The last, flimsy barrier is pushed aside and _his_ hands know her then. Even if she were to deny the extent of her arousal, the wet sounds of his fingers delving between her folds are enough to convict her and they are lubricated in less than three heartbeats. He lets two fingers disappear inside her, finding a slow rhythm.

She peels away from him while clutching his strong shoulders, digging nails into the sleeves of his shirt. His hand curves over her mouth and her breathless “ _ah”_ is muted as it leaves her throat. She opens her eyes and finds his staring her down with a gaze that simultaneously melts her where she sits and straightens her spine. He doesn’t stop with his ministrations and her eyes begin to close from her steady climb.

“Look at me,” he demands, if one can even do so while whispering. She fights to look at him with her full attention, but it is not without its difficulty when her legs begin to tremble. “Don’t make a sound, little bird. Understood?”

She nods, trying to suck in breath through his hand. The movement of students suddenly increase in volume and it makes sense. But his hand does not relieve the pressure on her lips as the other works her, creating a surmounting sensation that bunches in her lower abdomen and makes both hands grip harder. His eyes are obstructed by his bangs, but his smirk is visible. The students are getting louder and her climax is threatening to barge without invitation. With each thrust of his hand, a rather light tap from his palm hits her clit and it makes a world of difference to Riza. Whatever is coming won’t be discreet and it slips in throaty _“mmphs”_ and heavy breath through her nose that's pointed to the sky. He’s kept the same pace this entire time and somehow it makes her want to scream into his skin.

“Riza,” he reproaches. That doesn’t make it better, it makes it worse, and where sound can’t escape it circumvents into the jerk of her hips, the throw of her head, or the clamp of her legs blocked by his hips.

She breathes in deeply, feeling like she’s shattering into a million glass pieces in his hands, _just_ as there’s a knock on his door.  The knob is tried without success and on the other side, a girl calls out to him, “Professor Mustang?”  He puts her own hand over her mouth and allows her to burrow into his chest knowing the danger if she dares express her orgasm vocally. He holds her tight to his chest and later she will question if it was sort of post-orgasm affection or as a precaution. Riza hears the exchange with wide eyes. “What should we do? I thought these were his office hours.” “Maybe he-”

“I know that student,” he whispers and she’s still catching her breath. “Katie Montgomery, a bright and pretty girl. Quiet enough in class. But not as quiet as you.” He kisses her temple and when the footsteps retreat, the halls dying down soon thereafter, he lets her go. She feels boneless and euphoric - and not just because of the orgasm that is still wrecking her body. His fingers brush against her clit once more and she struggles to keep herself quiet: he draws her mouth back to his and she lets herself relax, lets herself come down from an orgasm that was wholly unexpected but _sorely_ needed.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Are you the new person drawn toward me?  
>  To begin with, take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;   
> Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?   
> Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?   
> Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy’d satisfaction?   
> Do you think I am trusty and faithful?   
> Do you see no further than this façade, this smooth and tolerant manner of me?   
> Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?   
> Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion?_


	6. take my body. eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We continue to be astounded by the immense amount of support by you guys! Whether it is comments, or fanart or moodboard - we are just WOW. thank you so much!!! We truly appreciate it A L L. We hope you enjoy this one!
> 
> Our dear friends Babs has her art formatted into the story in chapter 1, 3, and 4! Special shout out to you, pequeña!!
> 
> (natasza stark, lovesong: a murder, part i)

The muscles of her body relax under the hands that hold her still.

When he breaks the kiss, she takes erratic breaths in her denouement. She is quite the sight to see: her cheeks are flushed prettily, her lips are red and glistening, and her eyes give off a luster when she looks at him. It urges him to show her more if she so desired. He can only imagine the look he is giving her, wolfish and full of dark promise, but if she wanted him to show her, truly, all she would need to do is ask.

Roy is not without his own benefit. He would be remiss to ignore how responsive Riza Hawkeye is to his touch; how she allowed her desire soak through her underwear and the taut grip around his fingers inside her. The heat of the room rises thinking about it -- coiling in the curve of his collar, sweltering down his back and rounding back to the tip his groin. It takes a great deal of self-control not to ask her lie down and spread her legs when she bears the fruit so willingly. Miraculously, he knows this is the lust talking. However, Roy is not above bringing said fingers to his mouth, watching as she stifles a whimper, with a flash of shock and, perhaps, fascination dancing across her eyes.

Riza takes a deep breath, and he admires how steadfast her expression remains; it take him by complete surprise when she asks, “Do I taste good?”

“Yes,” he says lowly, amused, wiping his fingers against the side of his slacks - the movement makes the fabric pull even tighter against the obvious _bulge_ between his legs and he catches her glancing to and from like a nun accidentally catching sight of something indecent. His hands rest at either side of her on the desk.

A tiny smirk graces lips so close he could kiss them again, and she looks up to him coyly. “Is this you breaking another habit?” 

“I’d like to, with you. Seeing as you’re the catalyst for all these broken habits on the floor.”

She smiles, tucking a few errant strands of hair back behind her ears and pushes him back. “I have class in fifteen.”

He frowns, disappointment settling guiltily in his gut. The marked essay proposal sits with bent, uneven edges on the desk and even more guilt weighs him down. He grabs it and hands it to her casually while she straightens her skirt. “The grade was never changed in the system,” he confesses.

Riza stares at the paper and it’s like she’s remembered why she came into his office in the first place. A light pink colors her cheeks again. She takes it slowly with a nod. “Was I lured here?”

“To _talk._ Properly.” He crosses his arms. “It was the only way I could think of asking to talk to you without someone else realising. You gave me a pretty good excuse by falling asleep, _again_ \--”

“I wasn’t given any indication there was going to _be_ any type of talk after what happened in the library, so what was I meant to think when you changed my grade?” Riza says plainly, but there’s distaste in her words.

Roy clears his throat. “Clearly, the lines of communication were…”

“Nonexistent,” she supplies. Her arms wrap around herself, like she’s guarding herself. “You could’ve just asked me.”

“It’s not standard and suspicious to do so.” He does not miss the irony in that this could be said for _anything_ that has already happened between them.

She hums agreeably, chewing her lip like there’s something left she wants to say before she leaves. The clock above the bookcase at the end of the office reads ten minutes before the hour. “Where does this leave us?”

He fights a grin and invalidates the subtle feeling of flutters when he reaches back for a sticky note and scribbles on it quickly. “I’m officially offering you the assistant position in the Chemistry department. Text or call me with your response, but not right now. Think about it _properly_.”

Riza reads the note for a long time before she slides it into the front pocket of her bag. “Would I have been offered this if none of this had happened?”

He understands her fears because he knows it far too well and the last thing he wants her to feel is used. “Believe it or not, you were my first choice by merit. I didn’t expect you to help me as much as you did in the library, but I still would have gone with my second choice if you didn’t ask “where does this leave us.” If you want this to continue I’m more than willing; but perhaps not in my office when I’m meant to be available to talk to other students.” She forms a small smile and nods. His depraved other self laments when Roy reiterates, “Think it through.”

“I’ll be losing more sleep, won’t I?”

“If you’d like.” He smirks and she still manages to intrigue him. He moves to unlock the door, opening it wide for her. “If you don’t, I understand and we won’t speak of it again. If you do...well, we can start as soon as I put in the request for your transfer.”

She mentions her lack of time to get to her next class, scurrying out of his office but failing to leave his thoughts for the rest of the day.

Roy waits. He is distracted and senses a tiny sliver of guilt that really only serves to excite a thrill that _may_ happen. Perhaps, he surmises, she is smarter than this -- _smarter than both of us_ , he thinks with uncertainty. Yet, he still hopes that each buzz from his phone is a message from an unknown number.

It doesn’t make it better when he sits through a faculty meeting where nothing gets done or said in the typical way bureaucracy progresses forward. Roy would rather lose himself thinking about how she looked on his desk, writhing her hips. The image of her undone, trembling, and thoroughly kissed is a far more interesting one than what is happening in front of him now, with colleagues who look to have a foot already in their graves. He rubs his neck trying to think of cold showers and the uncomfortable way they are reminded of the ethical integrity of the University. Following the theft of lab equipment by a tenured professor, it was announced that meeting that an anonymous tip line was finally opened for faculty, students, and the public.

Roy tries his best to appear attentive.

* * *

 

> **Riza Hawkeye, 2:13pm** Can I ask you a question? I need advice
> 
> **Riza Hawkeye, 2:13pm** I’d ask Becca but she won’t give me an unbiased answer
> 
> **Olivier Armstrong, 2:16pm** You just did.
> 
> **Olivier Armstrong, 2:16pm** But sure. Shoot.
> 
> **Riza Hawkeye, 2:18pm** idk if Becca ever told you about the party we went to a few weeks back but
> 
> **Olivier Armstrong, 2:19pm** FFS if this is about a boy
> 
> **Olivier Armstrong, 2:19pm** Look
> 
> **Olivier Armstrong, 2:19pm** I’ll assume this is about some booty call or some shit
> 
> **Olivier Armstrong, 2:20pm** And you want me to tell you what to do because then it won’t be ‘all your fault’ when it fucks up
> 
> **Olivier Armstrong, 2:20pm** No
> 
>  

* * *

Her phone suddenly lights up with Olivier’s caller ID.

“Olivier, I-”

“Listen.” Olivier’s sounds bored over the tinny connection. “Either you like him or you don’t. It’s that simple.”

“I mean, it’s more than just that-”

“It’s really not. Whatever beef you have, it’s with him, or her, or whatever. You can deal with it like an adult, or you can sit and complain. What do you owe to yourself in this instance?”

Riza’s mouth goes dry and she scrambles to findgood retort. It never comes.

* * *

 She arrives late in the evening. The address he’s messaged her is in one of the nicer parts of East City. Better illuminated streets, a gated complex and she wonders about him even more. Riza keeps telling herself she isn’t here for a fuck, because she’s not. However, that voice isn’t as loud as the one telling her she wants one. From him.

He answer a few seconds after she knocks and she’s suddenly overcome with a feeling of timidness, of being _well_ out of her element. For a long time, all she’s had in her mind was school and work and, at times, the tragedy that was her father, but now she’s in uncharted territory without means to keep herself afloat.

That’s a lie. She has this new work that pays more and will looks dazzling on her resume come next spring. She’s taken out of her head when he asks her if she’d like anything to drink. _Before we fuck?_ is what she’d like to say, though he says, “Before we get started.” She shamelessly feels a familiar heat coiling in between her legs and she declines his offer with as much grace as she can manage in her current state.

As he leads the way, she notices how much his apartment matches his office. Couches and end tables are placed out of necessity. Rugs and curtains all in neutral colors of indigo, beige, and white, as if he had bought the furniture and arranged it from the most basic setup straight out of a catalogue with nothing to give it the feeling that it’s someone’s home. This place does not feel lived-in, it does not feel like a real _home._

Well, at least they had that in common.

The next room she enters is much warmer with the tones of rich wood and a fireplace to counter the frigid cold. There are numerous books decorating the walls with built-in bookcases and carpet compared to cool, dark hardwood of the other living space. A desk and behind it, a comfortable armchair with red and gold upholstery with its twin nearby in the corner. “It’s a study,” she says, surprised.

“Were you expecting something else?”

Her cheeks flush traitorously. “No,” she says quickly. “You don’t normally see these in modern apartments like this. I haven’t been in one for a long time.” The thought sobers her better than a bucket of ice water and she swallows that particular memory back down.

They do, in fact, actually get to work and she performs her duties diligently, forgetting all about the perverse thoughts lingering in her mind. He was true to his word when he mentioned that there were books he had that he couldn’t get from the library; large tomes that would be impossible to lug around. Every once in a while, she peers over at him sneakily and she has to cast away the intrusive thought that she came all over his fingers earlier that day.

She decides to focus on the work at hand and ignore him as best she can. It works well for a while; Riza curls up in the armchair in the corner and methodically works through the large books, noting down quotes and ideas with the corresponding page numbers. The reading is not the most... _stimulating_ and all too soon she finds her eyes once more wandering to where he sits at the desk, head resting against hand as he taps his pen against his mouth. The simple action shouldn’t be so engrossing to watch. Occasionally he draws the pen into his mouth properly and chews on the end of it. Riza has to look away and bite on her tongue painfully to stop herself from...well, she’s quickly losing that resolve. She doesn’t understand why he’s become such a source of distraction for her - well, alright, she _does_ know why - but it still doesn’t excuse that all he’s doing is fiddling around with a pen and _oh fuck he’s asking me something and I wasn’t listening._

“Sorry, I blanked for a moment,” she confesses, smiling in the blandest way she can muster. “What did you say?”

“I was just wondering where you were with the Curtis notes.”

She quickly flicks through her notepad, before uncurling herself from the armchair and walking over to where he sits. She passes the notebook to him, feels his fingers brush against hers. It hangs between them, the singular point where Riza can feel the heat of his fingers overlap her own.

He doesn’t make any indication that he’s aware of what he’s doing, but as the moment stretches on and he continues to watch her face and not move his hand, Riza decides that she will make the choice for them both.

She pulls the notebook firmly out of his grip and tosses it onto his desk. She takes his pen too, sliding it from his grip. He’s silent, and offers no resistance, but she knows he’s being coy with her, trying to salvage whatever walls he had built in a futile attempt to distinguish their rapidly crumbling boundaries. It’s funny because he has been dismantling it himself, brick by brick, with every interaction he has had with her. His actions speak louder than the words that are left _unspoken_ between them, and the silence is more than deafening.

She ignores the paper fluttering and falling behind her from his desk, one leg after the other climbing so that she can straddle him properly. A glaze go over his eyes and his pupils dilate, imperceptible if not for the soft yellow light from his desk lamp. She settles comfortably on his lap, hooking her fingers behind his neck and its gives him the go ahead to touch her heated skin along her thighs. The goosebumps are as instantaneous as the hardening to the peak of her breasts.

So she brings his lips to her with her hands entangled in his hair, tenderly and slow, as if to set a pace. But the rest of her body tell a different story: her hands running through his hair to bring him closer, nails scratching at his scalp. her hips undulating against his legs. Riza is not without control. This lust may have been burning wildly, starting from the kindling of the first day thanks to her own near-narcoleptic tendency, but she wants to savor it, feel it, enjoy it in ways she knows she hasn’t been able to before. Before was rushed and hurried and always with the fear of being caught. Here, in his study, they are alone in every sense of the word and the freedom is thrilling and euphoric in equal measure.

The want is back, elevating itself as she thinks again about that afternoon, and she’s breathing in deeper as the seconds go by and with each time his fingers grip her skin. Her lips swell and that slow pacing has transformed into the deep, lustful coupling incident at the library. Excitement teases her again when she remembers there are no books to interrupt, or students to hear her moan. She’s delighted, gripping his shoulders, when his lips peck at the sensitive skin on her neck, like he’s made note of it from before. She feels him, hard against her inner thigh. Her hands glide down his torso and gently nudges herself back to properly touch him.

He sucks in breath and feels so ready underneath his trousers. She comments on his rigid eagerness nestled in his pants and he responds only with a teasing bite to her neck; she arches her back. Without restraint, his hands slip underneath her shirt and surpassing the extremity of science, his touch is even hotter than her flushed skin and it leaves a blazing trail in its wake, seeping deep into her blood and pooling in between her legs, no doubt heated and wet again from this man’s touch. His fingers slide past the underwire of her bra just as she finds his lips again. Riza mewls, tongues tangled, when his hands cup her breasts. He alternates between massaging handfuls against her chest and rolling hardened nipples with his thumb and index finger in an unhurried and _agonizingly_ patient way as if he was biding his time. She whines when they slip back away from her, settling on her waist, and he bites her lower lip in the way that reminds Riza of the way she knows how.

She is spoiled: if it feels this good, he should continue.

Riza, the hypocrite - the one who wanted to pace them not even moments ago, can’t stand for paced teases anymore. She tells herself she wants the fire to die, to turn back to sleep-deprived Riza who couldn’t think beyond school and work. But it’s a lie, a half-hearted attempt to deceive herself: she wants this and no amount of convincing from her part - or from anybody else - could tell her otherwise.

Pulling away, she gets on her knees before him and separates his. He’s panting lightly and it’s delicious how his mouth is open in anticipation, because he knows - he _knows_ the boundary has been crossed _yet again_ but this image of her, on her knees in between his legs, is the epitome - the _fantasy_ \- of all the moral wrongs between their academic professions.

If he hesitates, he does it for only a second. Roy unbuckles his pants, scooching closer to the edge of the cushion, and she helps him shed it, pulling them down as they pool at his ankles.He’s hard with veins marking the length of him and as flushed with blood as her cheeks. He murmurs something but it’s cut off when her tongue wets the underside, following the vein from the base to just before the head. Her tongue circles around the tip of his cock before she takes it in her mouth. Groaning, his fingers clutch with great force the arms of the chair. Her hips wiggle comfortably over her feet.

She bobs her head leisurely, if not uncertainly, only able to take half of him before hitting pesky gag reflexes at the back of her throat. Where she can’t reach, her hand strokes and she lets go of him in intervals to lick and wet the unattended areas of him with her mouth.Fingers go through her hair and it’s so clear that he wants her to go further with the subtle twitch at the end of his fingers, but he never tells her so. His groans fill the study and it goes straight into her ears down to her cunt.

She opens her eyes when she tastes the precum. She lets him go with an unexpected _pop_ and worries that she’s already made a fool of herself. But he’s leaning back breathing heavily now. His hair is sweaty and even messier. As if reading her mind, he mentions the condom in his wallet. She rummages around in his messenger bag for a minute before she finds it, freeing it from the packaging and rolling it over his cock currently coated with her saliva.

Her fingers hook over her panties and brings down to dangle them off her thumb before they fall to the floor. He adjusts himself in the chair as her legs settle on either side of his.

Inelegantly, he asks, “You’re going to fuck me in your skirt?”

She smiles at him, slightly gasping only as she rubs herself against him lubricating him with her own arousal. “Is that a problem, _sir_?” On cue, his fingernails dig into her skin. She knows. She’s picked up on it. The tremble of his hand. How rigid he goes. Even now, he looks stunned, and his neck is tense; Adam’s apple bobbing from her innocuous show of respect.

“Mmm.” He sounds strained, throaty. “So you know about that, huh?”

Riza bites at her bottom lip, digging in even harder as the tip hits her swollen clit, only hinting at the pleasure she knows to follow. “You make it hard to miss. Besides, two can play at that game.” She lifts her hips over him, settling the tip at her entrance. “What was it you called me?” She slowly swivels her hips around to stimulate him the tortuous way he did with her. “Little bird?”

His brow is scrunched. The corner of his lip half cocked. Breathlessly, he says, “You liked it.”

“Yes, I did.”

She sinks into him and her mouth opens up, gasping, as if she were singing to the ceiling. He fills her. He fills her so pleasantly, so well. His hands clutch to her hips for dear life and when they are not, they helping her move against him. The chair creaks and whines. Their skin smack against each other, and it’s humid and hot. And over the sound of their sex, wet and steady and demanding, she can hear him moaning, something she’s only ever imagined.

Her imagination has _nothing_ on the real product. She grabs onto his shoulder for leverage, but she begins to grip even harder when she cinches around him, feeling the muscles from her back to her thighs to her walls around him tense each time she falls onto him.

Her body trembles. She tightens and throws her head back. He brings her in closer as she comes and it’s the second time he’s made her orgasm within the last twenty-four hours.

He gives her but a few seconds before he picks her with him and places her facing the chair. Her knees, a little raw from the floor and friction from the armchair, sting slightly when they’re placed near the edge. She holds onto the back of the chair and she swallows, feeling him position himself behind her.

His hips drive into her no sooner than when she gains the slightest ground on recovering. It’s different. Different-good. The band on her bra loosens from her torso and his hands travel up her thighs over her bunched up skirt and under her shirt. He grabs onto her waist when he increases the frequency of his thrusts. He cups her chest, grabbing onto them with familiarity like they were his. His strong arms lift her away from the back of the chair, her solid ground, so she is less angled and closer to his chest. His hot breath is at her ear. He straightens them more just as she getting used to the pleasantly unexpected spots he’s discovering for her and her dainty whimpers are moans bouncing off his study into his books, expressing what she couldn’t in his office. His grunts and moans and expletives all tickle in her ear, shifting her hair.

“Come for me, little bird.” She can hear the teasing in his voice; she allows herself a small smile despite the precarious position she’s in. She hates admitting it felt just as electrifying as it did the first time, but she is not without weapon.

“Make me, sir.”

She realizes her relinquished control far too late, enveloped in the stream of her own pleasures. She realizes because he ventures south with his hands and slowly rubs over the hood of her clit. Her hips and shoulder jerk, one trying to go back down and the other away from the sudden shock up her spine. His arm crosses her torso diagonally to keep her in place clutching her other breast as he continues with his ministration without so much as an interruption to the rhythm to his thrusts.

A moment of sobriety settles in between her orgasms. He’s learning from her. What she likes, what elicits a moan, what gets her wetter, picking up the cues her body gives to him. On his desk, in the library, in this armchair. The thought makes her grip at him further. Her encounters from before now feel like fumblings in the dark, like given an instruction manual for equipment without understanding the language. Here’s a man who’s fluent, who’s ripped apart her preconceived notion of this manual and put it together into something beyond its evolutionary purpose that overwhelms her in its intensity, inundates her with the pleasure. She feels it at the bottom of her feet to the tingling bliss on her crown.She scratches at the forearm over her chest, whining and whimpering, occasionally whispering “Fuck” into the room.

He’s holding onto her tighter. It’s building again mercilessly with his touch. Her head rocks back, hitting his clavicle. Her legs begin to tremble by her body. She cries out for him louder than she wanted to. She heaves for breath with an arched back, wondering if she’ll ever find solid ground again.

Suddenly, Riza is free then to clutch the back of the chair and he hunches over her, shuddering. He stays there for a moment, clutching her waist and kissing the side of her neck before he slides out of her. It takes her a moment to reconfigure use of her arms and legs before she collapses on the chair. She hasn’t caught her breath when he returns from the short trip to the wastebasket. He asks her, jokingly, if she’s okay.

He must’ve not heard her completely because he leans in closer to hear her better.

_“More.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _hunger: how it always starts.  
>  fruit, flesh, red seeds smeared  
> like blood across your lips.  
> a prayer._
> 
> _take my body. eat.  
>  leave nothing.  
> save what sings  
> in your gut._
> 
> _i want nothing in me untouched  
>  by you._
> 
> _i want nothing in me  
>  you would not run your tongue over._


	7. reckless, but you came to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys!!! sorry about the slightly longer space between updates, but hopefully this chapter will more than make up for it If You Know What I Mean ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). the next update will probably be delayed slightly again as mar and i are mods for [@royaismutweek ](http://royaismutweek.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr and so we will be busy with that!!
> 
> every time we update this fic we are so blown away with the response and all ur wonderful, kind comments!!! we know u guys spoil us a lot but we just want to say a BIG thank you to all of you who have subscribed, commented, given kudos, bookmarked, recced etcetc!!!! this fic has become our baby and we're so excited to be able to share it with such a engaging audience <3
> 
> i have made a playlist for this fic over on spotify called [catalyst](https://open.spotify.com/user/ishvallas/playlist/0bvGmnDxmoSoisIqxmvmct?si=-myRryiPQ_CRxUbEKVhllA)!!! it's got some cool bangers, so check it out!!!
> 
> (s. t., on loving an angel of war)

When she dreams, it’s a heated vision of two bodies moving against each other in rapid tandem. There’s sweat and she smells their sex. She’s carried from a warm study with even warmer hues from a fireplace and the smell of old books to a darker, sparsely decorated room with cool sheets laid beneath her. In this dark room, she can only make out silhouettes, his and hers. There’s a feeling in between her legs that she’s particularly fond of; how the sensation spreads like a warm salve throughout the rest of her, inside and out. Her muscles ache from being tightly wound by touch and released in the same stroke. It’s all very lucid. The bites. Her fingernails scratching the skin. Her throat vibrates from the caress and when she’s filled - _ ah! - _ in the places she pleads to be touched. It’s a dream she doesn’t want to wake from. 

When she wakes, her body lets her know how it aches, of muscles tired and worn. Then, a warmth; It’s not the kind of warmth she’s used to. Here, a cool morning air doesn’t nip at the edges of her thin duvet. Instead, it’s heavy and makes her want to slip further back into sleep on a unusually comfortable mattress. 

An arm is slung around her torso that isn’t normally there, but Riza is content to live and let live. She hasn’t felt this relaxed in a long time, despite the tenderness in between her thighs. 

An alarm goes off somewhere near her - an unfamiliar sound that annoys her more than frightens her; Riza’s simply too warm and too cozy to be concerned about things like  _ this bed is way too comfortable to be my own _ and  _ I’m ninety-six percent certain there’s someone with me in this comfortable bed too _ . The mattress dips beneath her and the shrill beeping stops.

She murmurs a thanks, and the person - whoever they are - shifts back into bed and curls their arms back around her torso, resting their forehead against her hair. She hums in pleasure. 

As if encouraged, soft lips begin to trail sleepy kisses down the skin of her neck. She shifts as best she can to give better access to the wanderers wrapped around her, trailing along her abdomen in patient exploration that follows the rhythm of the kisses and her heartbeat. One hand splays against her stomach fully under the oversized shirt she wears, pulling her closer against the length and suppleness of their body. The other hand drifts further up and curves around her right breast, teasingly thumbing over her nipple. 

Riza lets herself bask in the sensations that are unhurried and electric in equal measure. The heat pools steadily in her belly with every passing moment. The ache in between her legs begs for attention, causing her hips to slowly writhe, as she stretches luxuriantly. The hand pressed against the skin of her stomach travels south and warm fingers slip easily past her underwear. Though her thighs give a dull protest, they open for exploring hands.

The haze of sleep has long left her. It’s too much to be a dream by this point. The accuracy of the touch, its tantalizing wake - it feels too good. The moisture from her sex feels far too wet for a simple machination of her mind. 

Her companion’s breath is hot against her neck as they drop kisses and occasionally bite the taut muscle while she gasps for air. Her hands grab at arms, outlined and hardened by muscle, just like in her dreams. Her hips move and tilt and shift again. There’s something hard prodding at her, nestled in between her cheeks. Reaching behind her, she strokes it as he touches her, and a groan makes ripples on her skin reaching in between her legs in wonderful waves. There’s no ache to her body now, only this touch and she reaches higher and higher and much tighter until…

She opens her eyes and a bright morning greets her as she comes down from her orgasm with sweat dampening in the crook of her knees. 

Her fingers are still loosely wrapped around his cock. Her shoulders turn to greet her bed companion and he opens dark eyes, almost completely curtained by his dark bangs. He smiles crookedly and it’s a very handsome one until it dawns on her who he is. 

She sits up straight and blinks rapidly, trying to process that it wasn’t all a provocatively lucid sex dream and he pulls her from that almost panic attack. 

“Good morning,” he says to her sleepily.

She peers over her shoulder. It’s not fair. Without his glasses, he doesn’t even look like a professor; with the messy head of hair and scattered stubble along his jaw, he could almost be mistaken for one of those underwear models in the catalogues. She’d say he looked innocent until her jaw almost hits her lap when he, once again, cleans the fingers that was just  _ in _ her by way of his mouth. 

“Do you know what you want for breakfast?” 

She clutches the sheets tighter to her chest though she’s covered -  _ with one of his shirts - _ and looks to the ruffled bed for an answer to his blatantly casual question, like she almost doesn’t know what it means. She stammers, “No. Do you?” 

Roy lies flatly on his bed, a forearm resting over forehead. He smacks his lips as if he tastes something he likes. The sleepy smile turns into a wolfish grin and her brain catches up. “Yes.” 

Something about their short exchange makes her cleverly quip back, “I’m not on the menu.” 

“You could be if you take  _ these  _ off.” 

Blushing, Riza looks down where his fingers hook and release the hem of her underwear. 

“You’re very pretty when you blush,” says Roy, with no hint of embarrassment in his features. She’d sooner blow a fuse than understand how he can say such things without any kind of hesitation; how he can approach this situation with unflappable calm where she only feels a storm of nerves brewing in her. 

The warmth on her cheeks flare from his use a compliment to call her out, like he’s challenging her and putting her on the spot to prove herself. It’s such a fluid, effective maneuver that she wonders if he’s done this before.  _ It’s just sex, _ she thinks to herself while removing her small clothes. But that self-assurance, coupled with the lust behind that grin, it does terrible things to her. It makes her want to know how he can quell the storm brewing. 

Or better yet, how to incite it further.

She lowers herself on the bed and feels a smidgen of vulnerability when he stops her with a hand at the small of her back. 

“Not there.” 

She pauses, hands at her sides. “Then where?” 

“Climb over me.” She looks at him, confused, and he must’ve picked up on it, because he elaborates. “On my face.” 

“Oh.”  _ Oh.  _

The sexual aura that had been there just moments ago shifts  _ dangerously _ . Perhaps it’s the unknown. She’s never done something like this, so when she positions her legs, gracelessly moving over his head, she doesn’t know what to expect. He coasts up her thighs, like he’s admiring them with his hands, and jerks her close and hard that she uses the headboard to catch herself. She doesn’t realize how much she’ll need that headboard until it’s too late.

She gasps, spine straightening, when she feels his tongue make that initial swipe in between her lips. Her head tilts back, back arching and her body is lithe - no longer aching. Well, there’s aching but it’s being tended to in an exquisite way. She croons as he repeats with his mouth, kissing her and sucking and making her claw at the headboard every so often when he circles around her clit. He laps her juices up, groaning and enjoying himself. He rocks her hips for her and she feels exposed in the best way possible and strangely, she wants to open any avenue, any part of her she can for him, because she’s already opened her vocals for him. They are hoarse and scratchy from last night, but she can no sooner adjust to whatever he’s doing, when he changes the pace and she’s at his mercy once more. It’s not long before she’s moving her hips on her own accord, feeling the precipice near closer and closer. 

Riza looks down momentarily, giving her back a rest, and he’s watching her. Every moan, every twist her body made, he is drinking it all in and her body flushes all over. Not out of shyness, but because his look exudes confidence. The flick of his tongue, the rock of her hips is a purposeful thing because he  _ knows _ what he’s doing and he knows what will get her off and it manages to shock her -  _ again. _ Being exposed like this, being read like an open book… it surprisingly gets her off. A lot. 

And -  _ fuck! -  _ against her flesh, she can feel his lips curl into a smirk when she realizes it and she hits the edge of the headboard with her palm as she comes for the second time this morning. He doesn’t let her go. His tongue continues to lap at her as she feels her orgasm breaking over her, her hair becoming curtains for a show just for him.

Her knees are weak, her thighs are a quivering mess, and she holds onto the headboard like it’ll keep her afloat - head above water. His hands tightly gripping her hips are the only things keep her upright. With her eyes closed, panting and dazed, she taps at his arms. A plea. For something. 

She wants him to just  _ take  _ her. 

Riza says his name breathlessly, half heartedly urging him to stop. 

Muffled, he replies, “I’m sorry, I can’t hear your from all the way down here. Can you speak up please?”

She has half a mind to roll her eyes, even that seems like too much of an ask for her body right now. She groans, “Roy please.” 

“You even rolled your tongue a little.” 

A laugh bubbles out of her, a messy,  _ wonderful _ blend of exhaustion and euphoria. She doesn’t have the strength in her to even shift off him. Instead, she sits back far enough to rest her weight on his upper chest, uncaring of how the broad line of his shoulders offer her no modesty and force her legs apart even further. He watches her with a satisfied smirk, and a hand shifts down from her hips to stroke her exposed clit. The two of them are quiet for a few minutes, Riza allowing herself to simply bask in the sensations and calm her racing heart. His thumb is unhurried against her, certainly not enough to bring on another orgasm quite so quickly. Riza allows herself to move slowly against his hand. Her experiences with morning after sex are...lacking at best, but she feels emboldened by his confidence and by the growing need to be fucked again. Properly.

“Condoms are in the side drawer,” he says, and part of Riza wonders if he’s just got a really uncanny ability to know what she’s thinking, or whether she’s just that easy to read. She hears him remove his briefs as she finds the box, taking note of the dates on the back - she would swear until she turned blue under oath that all she was concerned with was the expiration date, but seeing the manufacture day only weeks apart from today makes her smile broadly.  _ For me, _ she thinks to herself, turning around only to come face to face with a very, very,  _ very _ naked Roy Mustang. It’s enough to make her breathless, until she focuses on the large scarred section of his abdomen. 

It’s an old one, pale now with age but she can’t get over how  _ big  _ it is. Comparisons rush through her head but she’s never seen anything quite like this - for something to leave a scar  _ that big _ and marred must’ve been - 

“It was...from a long time ago,” he begins. Her gaping must’ve been obvious, because he drops his head and rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly, but Riza is quick to clamber back onto the bed and curl her arms around his neck, kissing him soundly on the mouth. She tries to convey understanding and  _ acceptance _ as best she can, but any sense of shame about her own personal ghosts falls to the wayside in light of this new revelation. How comfortable he is with showing it. His hands cradle her jaw with unmistakable fondness and for a moment she exists with him with no ulterior motives. 

It’s not until her hands begin to bury themselves into his hair, bodies pressing into each other, that the pace of the kiss changes from languid to energetic. Riza unable to stop the giggles from escaping her as he peppers her face with kisses. He finds the spot on the side of her neck that makes her breath hitch and she feels the smirk as his teeth scrape over the small patch of skin. His hands slide down the borrowed shirt she wears and he begins to unbutton it slowly, punctuating each slip of button and fabric with kisses that start on her neck and travel down their way down. By the time she shrugs it off, he’s already drawn a nipple into his mouth and sucks on it none too softly. The feeling of his mouth on her again, tongue roughly brushing over the sensitive bud, shoots straight down to her groin, and Riza lets her hand part her folds and try to fill the empty feeling in her that’s been lingering all morning. Her other hands grasps at his head more firmly and she shivers as his teeth graze and pull on her nipple. 

The ripping of foil stirs Riza from the daze she’s in, and she withdraws her hand. They’re slick with the evidence of her arousal, and her breath catches in her throat when he takes them into his mouth.

“You’re terrible,” she manages, smiling weakly as her other hand dips to roll on the condom. He’s incredibly hot against her skin, and she feels herself become even wetter in response. 

He releases her fingers with an obscene  _ pop.  _ “You like it,” he teases, wrapping an arm around her waist. The strands of her hair flutter as he twists them around and sets her down on the soft plush bed. She leans back against the pillows. The morning light filtering through the blinds highlights him against the dark of his room. The fantasies she’d had about him couldn’t compare to what was in front of her now. The faded, mottled scar reaching around the curve of his waist almost seemed to  _ complete _ him, if that were at all possible. 

Her eyes close instinctively and her head digs further into the pillow as she takes him in with a sudden gasp; enjoying how easily he fills her, unrepentant of how much she wants him and how her body does a good job of showing it. She becomes pliant under him, like clay ready to be molded by his hands. His hips move against her in a steady pace and he disappears in the crook of her neck. Her fingers get lost in his hair, tugging and running nails across his scalp as he arrives at places that curl her toes and makes her feel tremors in her chest. His hand hooks at the bend of her leg and lifts it over his hip, and Riza raises the other, wrapping both around his waist. Her back arches and sweat begins to dampens her skin with the heat of his.

She could be lost in this forever.

The sound of an alarm goes off once more and she looks around, confused. She tries to say words that aren’t moans or gasps, but they fail her. 

“Ignore it,” he grunts. 

Her legs, coiled around him, loosen from the distraction, and he eases himself out of her. 

A whine urges her to be released as she feels a tug at her hips asking her to turn over, so she does before she thinks about it. 

For a moment, in that frozen second, she’s grateful she can’t see his face from this position, and the hands that rests on her hips lose their grip momentarily. He’s quiet and she can almost hear the cogs shifting in his head, clicking into place. 

“It was… from a long time ago,” she says carefully, mirroring his response, tilting her head to see him out of the corner of her eye. She’s surprised to see his brows furrowed, as if deep in thought, before he catches her eyes and his face relaxes. 

He kisses the spot where her spine dips and her skin is tickled there. For a moment, she thinks he forms the words “I don’t care” softly against her skin. His hand goes back to remind her how wet she is for him, burying himself in her again. 

The headboard receives the full brunt of her mewls with her head thrown back from the pleasure that reaches depths, tingling her abdomen. The air stays in her lungs, holding her breath as her muscles, fatigued and tense, contract once again. It’s slower this time, though, like the bar has been pushed almost out of reach. The slide of him against her - _ in her  _ \- teases at a feeling she can only catch the edges of, in this position at least. Until the strokes become longer and deeper. She can’t place how or why he does it: his hands grip at her hips but they also move about her tempered skin. His sensual touch, tender or errant, penetrates beyond her dermis and into her being until she reaches that higher, now familiar place. 

This one is different, is all she can remember thinking right before she comes. “Fuck,  _ fuck!”  _ She squeaks, scrambling for purchase on the bed and arching her back deeper. For a moment, she feels nirvana right at arm’s reach. 

* * *

They lie there on his bed, catching their breath, and her heart is beating quick.

“How old are you?”

She blearily opens an eye and he's just as exhausted as she is, chest rising and falling in quick succession. “Twenty.” She laughs, then he laughs at his afterthought when so much has already happened. “A bit late to be worrying about that. You?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Ah, so not entirely senile.”

He glares at her playfully, and says to her, “Not yet.” She bites her lip to stop herself from laughing. He gets up, rolling back the condom carefully and scrunches it into a tissue, throwing it into the small bin next to his dresser. He kneels, tossing her scattered clothes towards her on the bed, and rummages around in the drawers, presumably for his own.

Riza ignores the twinge of guilt that settles in her gut and scoops them up, ducking into the ensuite and closes the door behind her. The arousal beginning to dry between her thighs is uncomfortably sticky, and she goes about cleaning herself as best she can. Her thighs tremble like a newborn foal as she tries to rest her weight on one leg, the friction of the washcloth dragging over her skin almost too much. She feels full, she feels  _ sated  _ beyond all measure.

She runs a hand through her hair quickly, trying to arrange her fringe into something respectable. It’s not as terrible as she fears - in the reflection of the mirror, the only evidence of what she has been up to is the deep pink of her lips, and the blush still scattered on her cheeks. To anybody else, she could’ve been running down the street. 

The slick feeling lingering between her folds says otherwise.

She hears the low tones of his voice as she dresses, like he's speaking but not to her. She’s careful as she opens the bathroom door, peeking around the wood. He's got his back to her, leaning atop the dresser, with a phone to his ear. 

“No, I'm not ignoring you.” 

Oh,  _ shit _ . She doesn't want to jump to conclusions but there's very little reasons why someone would say that, in any given situation. His body language shouts exasperated but patient. A great deal of respect for the person on the other line. If she focuses, she can hear a woman's voice on the other line. No, no, no. This is a bad idea. She flattens herself against the wall to eavesdrop shamelessly.

“ _ Entiendo pero  _ … No. ... _ no.  _ I can't visit every weekend.”

His language changes, the inflections twisting his accent into something warmer, more emphatic. She doesn't remember why it's familiar. 

“ _ Madre, por favor.”  _

Of course, it's Spanish. She’s picked up enough from high school to understand “Mother” and “please.” 

“I'll see. Okay.  _ Cuidate.  _ Love you too.”

She inches her way out of the bathroom as he's putting down the phone. “You speak Spanish?”

Startled, he turns around and taps briefly on the phone like she's caught him off-guard. “Oh, yeah. That. My mother… Breakfast?”

She feels like she shouldn't. Her welcome feels overstayed. But he's swaying like an awkward schoolboy and she feels compelled to join him. She half smiles, “I'd have to pick up a change of clothes.”

A salacious grin forms. “Oh ho. You're coming back tonight?”

Not exactly what she had in mind but she won’t look a gift horse in the mouth - well, in this case a Mustang. “There's still work to be done.”

 

* * *

The traffic is surprisingly minimal in the city at half past eight in the morning. She’s grateful that a walkway runs by her flat that she can duck into - not that she doesn’t trust Roy, but it’s a lot easier to have him park one street over and attract less attention. She can only imagine the uproar if either Olivier or Rebecca recognised him, despite the tinted windows of his SUV.

The less questions and prying eyes, the better.

The flat is dark when she unlocks the front door and Riza lets out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding. It would make her quick visit a lot easier to complete before - 

“Are you gonna tell me where you’ve been?”

Riza shrieks as Rebecca suddenly appears in the hallway, looking every bit the frazzled housewife persona Riza is certain she’s aiming for. Her hands are firmly on her hips and her normally unconcerned appearance is instead replaced by scrunched eyebrows and a mouth set into a hard, thin line.  The look is topped off by the threadbare dressing gown and worn bunny slippers that she gave her for her birthday last year. It would be comical, if Riza wasn’t trying to stop the heart attack she could feel coming.

“Oh my _god_ _Rebecca I could’ve-”_

Her flatmate stomps her foot childishly. “Where have you  _ been?  _ I have been ringing your phone non-stop and I was damn near ready to call the cops!” Rebecca’s lips are quivering and Riza feels a rush of affection for her flatmate.

“My phone died,” Riza answers after a moment that stretches on too far, toeing off her shoes and brushing past her friend down towards her bedroom. “I’ve just come to pick up my charger - Natalie called in sick at the library so I’m covering for her today.” The lie rolls off her tongue a  _ little _ too easily and she tries her best to shrug off the implications of the slippery slope she’s already balancing on.

“You never work weekends,” Rebecca grumbles as she follows her down the hallway, running a hand through her hair roughly. “I made you mac’n’cheese last night and I waited and I  _ waited-” _

“I know, I know,” she replies distractedly, throwing down her bag onto her bed and letting herself breathe for moment, trying to bask in the sheer insanity that the last twenty-four hours had been. She’d fucked her professor. Multiple times. And she  _ liked it. _

If she was fucked before, cumming on her fingers to his name, she didn’t know what that made her now.

Debauched, perhaps? 

“Will you be home for dinner?” Rebecca asks, leaning in the doorway. Riza shrugs, trying to ignore the feeling of shame creeping over her. It’s not that she can’t trust her best friend, but there are some secrets that are better left unspoken. She’s not sure she could explain it well enough even if she tried.

“I don’t know,” she answers as she rummages around for the bare essentials: deodorant, her charger, a maybe change of clothes if she can shoo Rebecca away. Her phone burns a hole in her pocket as the seconds tick on and Rebecca still lingers by the door. She already feels nervous just like this - god knows what would happen if her friend realised what she had been doing.

_ And what you’re going back to do,  _ a snide little voice inside her head reminds her. 

Rebecca is watching her with an expression Riza can’t quite pinpoint and she thinks better of trying to pack a toothbrush - besides, Roy seemed like the kind of guy who would have spare toothbrushes. Or not. It’s truly staggering how little she actually knows of him, how little she can gauge of his character. 

Instead, she grabs a sweater from her closet and looks at Rebecca pointedly, who makes a big fuss of closing her eyes. Riza is quick to change, mindful of the few bruises she can see peeking over the fabric of her bra. It’s unlike her to succumb to lust -  _ because that’s all this is _ , she thinks to herself harshly, stuffing some shirts and a pair of leggings into her bag. It’s unlike her to want to go back to him, to want to feel him - whether his fingers, his tongue, or  _ more -  _ and a little part of her is scared of what this all means, what will happen when things take a turn for the worse.

Riza knows she’s playing with fire.

“Will you be back  _ tonight?” _ Rebecca asks pointedly and Riza exhales in frustration, grabbing a hair tie off her nightstand and roughly pulls her hair into the approximation of a ponytail.

The gasp behind her makes her turn past her mirror and the spots along her neck tell Riza the jig is up.

“Going to the library my  _ ass-”  _ Rebecca sounds torn between being accusing and gleeful and Riza grits her teeth, pushing her bangs out of her face and refusing to look her friend in the eye.

“Rebecca it’s not-”

“You were  _ fucking  _ someone!” her flatmate squeals and Riza winces a little at the volume, batting away the hands that are reaching for her shoulders. “You little  _ harlot _ , you honestly thought you could-”

“Rebecca-”

“-even  _ try _ to hide this from me, because  _ honey-” _

“No, I-”

“-your neck is atrocious and I would like his number because-”

“ _ Rebecca! _ ” Riza nearly shouts, yanking her friend’s hands down from where they they were on her neck. Her friend gapes inelegantly and Riza wills herself not to just storm out now. “I don’t - I don’t  _ need _ this from you right now,” she explains, trying not to let her emotions get the better of her. “It’s new and I-”

“No, Riza, I didn’t mean-”

“I’m still…” she trails off, deliberately looking anywhere but at her friend; she can already feel the burning in her cheeks and inwardly she hopes that’s enough to mitigate whatever evidence Roy left on her neck. Instead, she’s reminded of the sensation of said lips on her neck and Riza struggles not to automatically shiver at the memory. “It’s new and I’m, uh - I’m still trying to figure this out, ‘Becca.” It’s not quite the apology she wants to say, but Riza knows that the second she leaves her friend will be scouring for any evidence of who her mystery hookup is.

Rebecca nods cautiously and Riza can already see the cogs turning in her head. In some ways she’s almost grateful it’s her professor - the likelihood of ‘Becca going out on  _ that _ far of a limb is very slim - but still.  _ This _ is why she made him park his car a street away. Rebecca, despite all her antics and cavalier attitude, was not someone to underestimate when she put her mind to it.

“Just…” Rebecca stalls, twisting her fingers together. “Be safe, yeah? Use condoms, and if he tries to make you do something-”

“Good _ bye!”  _ Riza throws over her shoulder as she ducks back down the hallway, deliberately shutting the front door behind her with a touch more force than necessary. 

* * *

They arrive at some hole in the wall. She's probably passed it a thousand times but never paid any attention to it. It smells of someone’s home cooking but it's foreign to her.

They seat themselves at a booth and it's dark with slow moving fans overhead. A larger, older woman with an accent approach them and greets Roy with an emphatic smile. She comments on how he's finally dining in and she turns to greet her warmly. Feeling out of place, Riza awkwardly nods as the laminated but worn menus. She can't recognize any of the food that's typical for a diner. He orders coffee for both of them as she tries to interpret the pictures and match them to the descriptions, but finds not logical connection. She sees eggs simply enough but- “what are plantains?”

“Oh sorry. I suppose I should I have warned you before - is this okay?”

“Of course, I'd just like to know what the menu is.”

He smiles sympathetically. “Plantains or  _ platanos  _ are like a sweeter version of bananas when fried and ripe.”

“You eat fried bananas for breakfast?”

“I eat plenty of sweet things for breakfast,” he says nonchalantly, perusing the menu.

She scoffs, running a hand through her hair as she looks to the side just in time for the waitress to bring them two mugs of coffee and it smells like the blend he’d bring her in the mornings.

“Do you know what you two want?” 

He orders something in Spanish in a pace that’s too quick for her elementary knowledge to pick up, except for the words  _ “bandeja paisa”.  _

By complete and total surprise, the woman grabs Roy’s cheek and tugs it gently back and forth. They banter in Spanish and a depraved part of her recognizes where he gets the tongue flexibility from. 

Judging by the menu, it’s a large platter with steak, avocado, rice, beans, and other food items she can’t identify. For herself she orders simple scrambled eggs. The waitress looks at her as if she’s waiting for more and then picks up her the laminated when Riza doesn’t offer anymore. 

“You’re not hungry?” he asks as she walks away. 

She shakes her head. “No, but clearly you are.” 

“Can you blame me? I had quite the workout last night.”

Their booth remains in a comfortable silence until their food arrives and suddenly, the words crowd on her tongue like bees. She isn’t sure how to begin this particular conversation - how  _ does  _ one go about propositioning someone for more of...whatever this was? Fuck buddies was too harsh, too crude a term for her tastes.

“Where are you right now?”

She flashes him a quick smile and it fades as he squirts lime over his steak. “Just...thinking.”

“About?”

Riza pushes her eggs around on her plate. “Us.” The word is a weird taste in her mouth. “I’m not really in the habit of hook ups.”

“Is that what you think this is?” Her head jerks up and he’s not even focused on her, instead cutting up his piece of steak. 

“It isn’t?”

Roy shakes his head, his shoulders sagging from savoring the meat and chewing thoughtfully. “Hooking up implies it was a opportunistic meeting, a split-second decision,” he says after swallowing his mouthful. His cutlery hangs loosely from his hands as he fixes her with a intense stare. “There was nothing opportunistic about you.”

Riza splutters, cheeks burning. “So - what, you’re saying you  _ seduced  _ me?” Her eggs lay forgotten in front of her. He seems completely unperturbed by her reaction, taking another mouthful of his breakfast. 

“I did, didn’t I? Bought you coffees - which, by the way, you’re welcome-”

“Buying me  _ coffee  _ does not constitute as  _ seduction, sir _ .” 

He laughs loudly, leaning back in the booth and resting his cutlery on his plate. “Certainly didn’t stop you from drinking them,” he replies, crossing his arms, watching her with a - dare she say? - fond expression. “Truthfully, neither of us should’ve let it get to this point-”

“Says the adult nearing thirty-”

“We’re both adults here Riza.” There’s a sharp edge to his tone and she curls her arms in close to her body. “Yes, it’s highly unethical and undoubtedly I am one-hundred percent morally bankrupt as of this morning-” his lips quirk up and she knows all too well what his mind has drifted back to, “-but a part of me just kept saying ‘fuck it’.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I guess I did, didn’t I?”

She takes a sip of coffee, trying to sort her thoughts. “So you don’t regret it?”

“That’s...more complicated,” he begins, ripping off a section of the tortilla. “Do I regret sleeping with you? No. You’re an attractive, clever young woman. I like making you squirm. You’re very responsive and I like that.” He winks at her none-too- subtly and Riza fails to stifle a snort. “But I do regret what position those actions have put us in. I mean sure, my own academic career is toast, but - your career, I-” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I can say with certainty that I wasn’t thinking about that when I kissed you in the library, and for that I’m sorry.”

His apology is unexpected, and she’s quiet as she mulls it over. “That’s my own decision to make,” she says finally. “And it’s my own, moving forward too.”

Roy stills. “And that is…?”

It’s hard for her to say these words, be this open and honest about how she feels. She doesn’t do well verbalising her thoughts at the best of times, and verbalising affectionate feelings...it’s hard to do. She’s never been good at it, never had the opportunities to practice. She swallows, and sets down her coffee mug. “If this was just a one-off, we wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have driven me halfway across town, wouldn’t have waited for me as long as you did. I, uh - if you wanna continue this, then I’m - I would like that.” She looks up to see him smiling broadly at her. “What?”

His smile widens, and Roy extends his hand across the booth table. She lets her fingers slip into his, and heat blooms across the knuckles that he strokes with his thumb. “I’d like that too,” he replies. “But we have to be discreet about it. It’s not going to be some kind of secret relationship-”

“I know,” she cuts him off smoothly. “I’m not asking for that. But I don’t see why we can’t have this as it is...” she falters, and he squeezes her hand lightly. 

The door to the diner chimes as another customer walks in, and Riza slips her hand out of his grasp, picking up her fork once more. She doesn’t feel hungry, but the eggs tastes extraordinarily savory as though she was hungry. It doesn’t take her long to clean her plate, and she watches with morbid fascination as Roy demolishes his own, much larger breakfast.  

“I still need to get back to you for that little stunt,” he says finally, pushing his plate to the side.

Riza sips her coffee. “For what?” 

“For falling asleep in my class.” 

“Didn’t I make up for it last night?” 

He sets down his mug. “Quite frankly, no,” he says. “I took it easy on you.” 

Coffee sputters out of her mouth and it burns the tip of her tongue. “I understand the male ego, but there’s no need to be cocky about it,” she reassures him, grabbing a napkin. “I enjoyed myself.” 

“And I enjoyed you, but there’s little to no ego involved here. I can tell you haven’t been particularly adventurous in your sexual experiences.”

Her cheeks flush the color of the tacky pink on the wall. 

“There’s nothing wrong with that, of course,” he continues offhandedly, “but now you have the opportunity to change that. If you want.” 

She huffs a little through her nose and crumples the napkin in her hand. “You mean to tell me you’re some kind of sex god?” 

He shrugs noncommittally. “In the context of your experiences, yes.” 

She leans in towards the table, holding her elbows with an air of indignation from his confidence, yet this part of him thrills her. “Then tell me,  _ O mighty one _ , how can I be more adventurous?”

He’s silent for a moment, mulling over his words before he rests his chin over his fingers and eyes her deviously. “Wouldn’t you rather me show you?”

* * *

> **Becca Catalina, 10:04am** i promise i wont pry that much but i gotta kno
> 
> **Becca Catalina, 10:04am** how good is he for u to be going back for another round
> 
> **Riza Hawkeye, 10:06am** three orgasms this morning
> 
> **Becca Catalina, 10:10am** holy fucking shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _last night i dreamed that i touched you;  
>  it hurt, your skin covered in thistles. you   
> said - see, i told you this would be no good,  
> i told you i am pain - but when i let go   
> i stared down at my bleeding palms and  
> they had stopped shaking._
> 
> _i dreamt that i loved you, and i woke up  
>  and it was still true; i’ll curl my fingers   
> over the thorns jutting out from your hips,  
> i’ll slice myself open, if you’ll kiss me  
> and wear down the rock in my throat._
> 
> _i prayed to you, and in my dreams  
>  you answered, told me i was delusional,  
> reckless, but you came to me   
> anyway and i put your hands sharp  
> like knives on my chest and pleaded,  
> pleaded for you to slow my heart down,  
> just for a moment._
> 
> _kiss me again, let me taste the blood,  
>  i prayed for you and you came, you came,  
> let me taste you again._


	8. should i let them out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we know we said we'd prolly be busy until after royaismutweek but we felt it was really important for us to get this chapter out regardless. ty for all ur support, both new and old readers alike!!!! we hope u enjoy this chapter as much as u have with the previous updates <3 
> 
> royaismutweek is almost upon us so go check that out over on tumblr!! the next update for this chapter will prolly be another 2 weeks away as i (bergamots) am starting university again on monday and we will both be a little tied up with royaismutweek. we will work hard to keep to our schedule as best we can tho!!!!
> 
> (lillian olson, eyes open)

They look like branches, her scars, sprawling across her back as if it craved for more skin to carve. Riza looks over her shoulder and her reflection in the mirror touches the parts where it’s discolored with reds and yellows and even some peach tones from the marred skin. Stretching from her shoulder blades, the texture is leathery from the scarring running deep.

It doesn’t hurt any more; it hasn’t hurt for a while now. What it is, however, is an explanation someone inevitably demands, requiring her to open up, recount, and relive the pity coupled with looks of superficial sympathy, like she was this beautiful but _broken_ thing. She gets tired of telling it. It’s never enough when she tells them the only answer she wants to give: a burn from a long time ago, an accident. In morbid curiosity, they go on presumptuously and ask, “how, when, why?”

That morning, in the middle of sex in his bedroom, she was ready to stop and gather her clothes rather than hearing the slew of questions and running through the motions. Instead, he says, “I don’t care.” Or she’s convinced he did. It makes her feel peculiar and she can’t pinpoint if it’s because of his own disfiguration, but she can’t help thinking about it now every time she catches a glimpse of her own back.

A _ping_ sounds from the open laptop on her bed, pulling her out of her thoughts. She meets disappointment when it’s just a university-wide notification and kicks herself for her eagerness to hear from him. Cold water hits her arm, dripping from her wet hair from the recent shower. She supposes she should dry up and get out of her towel properly. She grabs the blowdryer sitting on top of her dresser and slips back into the bathroom, the air still warm and humid from her shower.

As she dries her hair, her mind’s eye brings forth the memory of his burn scar as the blowdryer tunes out the rest of the world. It’s terribly discolored with deep violets and burgundy, worse than hers. It must’ve been recent, she muses, because hers hasn’t looked that in quite a few years. Back when it did hurt. The shoe has never been on the other foot before and she wonders what happened, and how, and when. If it hurt terribly.

Annoyance prickles around her mind because now she’s the hypocrite who wants to know and sharing scars from excruciating burns shouldn’t be something that makes her comfortable and curious about him. She doesn’t know how long she wants to continue this, this unethical episode of hers, and perhaps it’s better that she doesn’t know and best if she doesn’t ask like she knows not to. If she doesn’t like being asked, perhaps he doesn’t either.

Riza combs her fingers through her fluffed hair as she crosses back into her bedroom. To her surprise, Rebecca is lying sideways on Riza’s bed with the laptop moved to her fingertips; she’s got a wide grin on her face as she scrolling through _something_ and her recent browsing history horrifyingly races to the forefront of her mind.

In hindsight, Riza should not have been googling tips on the finer points of ...fellatio or how to make it spectacular for the receiver in broad daylight.

In hindsight, she should’ve realised that she was asking for trouble, asking for her nosy and determined best friend to weasel any scrap of information she could out of her.

 _“Rebecca!”_ Riza shrieks, running, dropping her towel in the process, slamming down the lid on her laptop, and feeling the burn flush through her entire body. She snatches the electronic from Rebecca and lets it fall heavily on her desk.

Rebecca cackles _that_ cackle that Riza hates so much and she begins wheezing. “You...you actually... searched _fellatio?”_ Quite the exaggerator, as always, she holds her sides, past the point of making any recognisable sound as tears stream down her face. She squeaks, “ Oh my _God_ , Riza, it’s called a _blowjob!”_ Rebecca falls back on the bed, gasping for air and turning a faint shade of purple.

Riza would feel sorry for her if she wasn’t feeling so embarrassed herself. She picks up the fallen towel and chucks it to her friend’s head none-too-kindly as Rebecca continues her best impression of a strangled seal.

Rebecca sighs once she manages once she calms down a bit, wiping at her face and having sporadic bursts of giggle fits like a prepubescent schoolgirl. _“Cosmo_ is not who you should be looking to for blowjob advice. Nothing about ‘how to lick his dick like a froyo’ is actually gonna prepare you for when he tries to shove it down your throat with no warning.”

Unfolding the undergarments from her drawers, Riza mutters, “Why are you in my room?”

Rebecca ignores her to wipe the edges of her eyes. Instead of making any apparent effort to leave her room, she instead leans back on her elbows and wolf-whistles loudly. “ _Damn girl. You lookin’ fiiiine. Let me get yo’ number,”_ she manages in a deeper voice, before bursting into peals of laughter once more. Riza can’t help a smile and sees her friend resting her head leisurely on her palm as she lounges on her bed. “You’ve been a little... preoccupied lately, not to mention _well-rested._ Now, I consider myself a _very patient_ woman, but there’s only so much time your best friend can take. So spill your tea. I can imagine it’s still scalding.”

Riza can hear the teasing in her friend’s voice and she knows deep down that it doesn’t come from a place of spite. What is she meant to say? While they stare at each other, a thousand excuses have run through her head, a thousand different explanations that bend the truth _just so_ but in the end she knows that Rebecca well enough that a small lie will only work short-term. Part of her wishes she _could_ just... _tell her_ . Throw all caution to the wind and just speak openly about how fucking bizarre and _terrifying_ and _exciting_ this situation is. Either to share this wild experience with her or, if by some miracle, she’d knock some sense into her.

Whenever rhyme and reason elaborates on just how _bad_ of a situation this is, Riza finds herself remembering the stretch and sighs, remembers the goosebumps from his lips on her neck, the way she felt when she was above him, and his dark eyes locked onto her own. It outweighs her common sense every time; wrecks her reasoning, then she calculates the number of weeks until the final grade is administered when it will too late to investigate; it won’t matter after that. “Rebecca. Not now.” Riza tries to make her voice sound firm, brook no argument, shrugging. “I have nothing to spill.”

The fabric of her bedsheets shuffle from Rebecca scrambling to sit cross-legged. “I know you’re fucking someone, Ri. I mean, your neck was a dead giveaway but you’ve been so spacey every time I see you. I need to _know_ ,” she says, elongating the “know” into a whine.

“And _I_ need _you_ to get off my pyjamas.” She tugs the articles of clothing she laid out on her bed earlier from under Rebecca.

“You keep changing the subject and that makes me _very_ suspicious, Riza Hawkeye. Why is that? What is it, are you embarrassed? Don’t you see how this is tormenting me?”

Silently, Riza turns away from Rebecca to dress.

“ _And_ I know it isn’t that because your dad’s visit isn’t until next week so...spill. Or I’ll find out anyway.”

Incredulous, she looks over her shoulder. “Why is it that you know my schedule, Becca?”

“If you’re telling me you don’t know mine, I’m gonna start crying right here and now. But you’re doing it again, trying to distract me like you know I can get. Change the subject one more time, I dare you. If you don’t, you can come here,” she beckons her to the bed, “And tell Mama ‘Becca about your naughty, _naughty_ sexcapades.”

The bed dips under their combined weight and Riza huffs, rolling her shoulders to feel the satisfying grind of bones against one another after a lot of...activity. “I think you’re putting too much hype onto this, you’ll going to be sorely disappointed.”

Rebecca mouths _“three orgasms”_ while holding up three fingers and rolling her eyes to the back of her head.

Riza snorts. “Okay, _okay.”_ She leans back at Rebecca’s behest and her head rests on her friend’s lap. Before she begins, her fingers intertwining over her chest as she stares at the blank ceiling, a canvas for reminiscing the numerous times they pushed their bodies against each other. “What do you want to know?”

A different barrage of questions ensue, “Who is he? What’s he like? What’s the sex like? What’s wrong with him? Ho-”

“Rebecca,” she interrupts sternly. “One at a time.”

Rebecca sighs and says in a depressed tone, “Oh bother. Who is he?”

“A good fuck. A _really_ good fuck.”

“No, shit. If I barely saw you before, I see you even less now.” Rebecca takes some of her hair and beginning to separate it. “And when you are here, you’re in this daze. You’d think that dick was the cure for cancer or something.” She stays quiet as Rebecca methodically combs through the small knots in her hair, before feeling her fingers over her scalp as she begins to form a french braid. Rebecca’s fingers are gentle, sweeping up the baby hairs that have come loose around her forehead, smoothing them down. Riza smiles inwardly; it’s soothing. “Give me deets and I’ll give you advice on killer blowjobs.”

Her heart beats quickly, slightly flushing and praying to the void that she can get through this without incriminating herself or anyone else. “He’s a red-blooded male. I don’t know what else is there to tell. Energetic?” Rebecca tugs on a portion of her hair with a little more force than necessary and Riza yelps, her head jerking backwards with the motion. It’s clearly not the answer she wants.

“Listen, you’re telling me you’ve been seeing this guy for weeks, _weeks_ and that there’s _nothing_ to tell. Do you even know me at all?”

 _“All right,”_ she concedes, crossing her arms tightly across her chest.

A satisfied smile widens on Rebecca’s face as she brings her back down by the ends of her hair, careful of preventing her work from being further undone. “That was...easy.”

“As if you were giving me the choice,” she grinds out.

“Nope!” Rebecca chirps, popping the ‘p’ with relish. Her flatmate pats her shoulder to reassure her, but it does nothing to alleviate the unease growing in Riza. “Now, are you two exclusive or...?”

“No,” Riza quickly answers, but she bites her lower lip because the truth is she doesn’t, and what she does know: “But I want to see him again. At least, I think so. I _want_ to...” she begins, twisting her fingers. “I think he does too.”

“Where’d you two meet up?”

“He’s… the guy from the party,” she lies casually and perhaps, too hastily. “From a few weeks back.” Riza doesn’t even know the one from the party, who he is, or even his name; but it would do the job - better than being overly cagey about the little details that would raise red flags.

“Oh! You two were going for it in the kitchen, yeah?”

 _Fuck._ She was counting on Rebecca’s intoxication to aid her. Riza knows better than to have loose ends. “No, not him. He was too far gone to do anything. It was the one after him.”

She watches as her friend’s eyes bug out. “After? How drunk was I? I don’t remember another guy.”

“Everyone was sloshed. We exchanged numbers and it was downhill from there.” Rebecca’s quiet as she finishes the braid with a tight knot to hold the plait. She’s too quiet, like she’s scouring her memory for any signs of her imaginary friend. “I don’t remember a lot of that night,” she hedges, hoping that it’ll be enough to dissuade her. In reality, of _course_ she does, she remembers _that night_ all too well: slick fingers and the shame cresting over her in waves.

“Well, whatever. How did it start?”

Riza sighs. She recaps the main points while altering a few key details. Like the library was now random outdoor seating area before her class and how it was over for her there and remembering how he had pushed her against the wall, the way his hand had wrapped itself in her hair, pulling against her scalp pleasantly. The way he made her feel with just his fingers afterward and how she deliberated whether or not to show up at his place.

Rebecca drinks every detail up and Riza is intent on making this story as truthful as she can manage, even by allowing Rebecca come to her own incorrect conclusions. “The magic dick. _Spill.”_ She elongates the word, her tongue awkwardly flicking the last vowel. “I’m still not over _three fucking orgasms_ like _shit._ The boys here are lucky if I fake one. _”_  

Riza sits up, feeling the tight braid under her fingers. “I mean, if you want to be technical we should count the ones from the night before too,” she interrupts, trying and failing to keep the smirk off her face.

Rebecca’s jaw goes slack. “You’re fucking with me.”

Riza smiles broadly, shaking her head. Was this... _pride?_ Was she proud of experiencing this?

“I want a play-by-play recount,” Rebecca insists. “Though I get why you’d be wanting to repay the favour, that’s-”

“He’s simply someone who knows what to do with me. Like he takes note of what gets me closer to an orgasm. As if he knows if I have a good time, he will too. Especially showing me things because he’s _definitely_ more experienced. More...mature, I would say,” she confesses, finding herself getting lost in her memories and in the pulse beginning to beat in between her legs. Riza looks tentatively at Rebecca wondering if she gave away too much.

Rebecca grabs a pillow to hug, half-burying her face. “Give an example.” Her eyes are bright and Riza can’t help but be transported back to the sleepovers they’d have when the two of them were much younger: still gossiping about boys, still squealing over gossip overheard in the playground. Admittedly, it’s more fun now, because they can compare notes and tell lurid stories but - this particular encounter feels different.

Perhaps because she’s holding back. Riza swallows, and vows to at least be truthful about the details of their...sessions? _Dates_ is too weird, and _hookups_ feels too...cheap.

“Facesitting,” Riza finally answers. Her face warms up as she says, “Different positions in different places I would have never considered. I’ll give it to him, he’s got an imagination and creativity. He’s got a sizable dick, but even if he didn’t I’d say he’d still know his way around.

“I’ll start feeling like I’m about to come and it’s like he doesn’t hear me telling him and it _always_ hits hard. The amount of times he’s made me come like, two or three times in a row before he does is just...yeah.” She bites her lip in memory of the most recent encounter - he had eaten her out on the island in his kitchen in between making them breakfast. Riza squeezes her thighs together involuntarily and tries to suppress a shiver.

The bacon had burned, but he hadn’t seemed too concerned; then fucking her until the toast burned too.

“He never seems to be in a rush to get himself off, but with me it’s like he’s trying to set a world record for - _how many times can we get her off_ , does that make sense?”

Rebecca glares at her. “Because that’s such a burden, isn’t it?”

Riza pokes her tongue out playfully.

“Oh my _god_ , how could I forget about what he looks like-” Rebecca sits up suddenly. “Is he ripped? How tall?”

“Athletic. Defined. There’s a decent six pack there but it’s more like - he can just pick me up like I don’t weigh anything. And he’s...thick enough, I suppose. Whenever he first puts it into me properly is the best feeling because he’s not quick about it and the stretch is just…” she trails off, grinning unabashedly. “Like the fucking itself is _great_ , don’t get me wrong, I’m trying to grab at just about anything I can get my hands on. His hair, his sheets, his back...”

Rebecca runs her fingers through her hair as if _she’s_ getting bothered. “A guy who knows how to fuck and likes to make a meal out of it? That’s a rare combination. Can you share him? _Please_.”

Riza smiles. “I know your type and he’s not tall enough for you. Less than six feet tall.”

Rebecca sighs dramatically. “At _least_. But now I know your mystery man isn’t entirely perfect. There’s still hope for the rest of us.”

“Not all of us need a freakishly tall man, ‘Becca-”

“How am I meant to wear heels if I end up taller than him that is _unacceptable_ -”

The two of them burst out laughing and Riza leans back against the wall, drawing her legs up close to her chest. She does feel better, for having talked about it, however carefully, but the room falls silent again and the unease settles again.

Rebecca’s jaw is slacked when Riza looks up. “Who _is_ this guy? Does he go here?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, but I’m sure I would’ve heard about him by now. Probably just transferred here.”

Riza snorts. “I won’t deny it’s not great, because it _really is_ -”

“Okay. _Okay._ I’ll try my hardest not to be jealous of you and this new boy-toy.” Her friend groans and throws herself back onto the bed. “What’s his name?”

She fails to consider this with care. “Boy...le.”

“Boyle?” Rebecca raises a questioning brow; Riza would too. “Like boils on the face?”

“Mmhm.” Riza jokes dryly. “He’s got a ton of them on his face. It’s one of my turn-ons.”

“Gross, Ri.”

She can see the suspicion sharpening her narrowing eyes. Out of the two of them, her poker face has always bested Rebecca’s but she’s never had to lie to her face to this capacity before. Quite frankly, there’s a sinking feeling in her gut because of it.  

Right as she begins to second guess her to decision to lie, a manic, lecherous grin spreads on Rebecca’s face; it bares her teeth wide.

It unsettles Riza because she thinks she’s got her with a _“Got you! I’ve known all along, you liar_ ” and this problem would lift - into an entirely _different_ problem, mind you.

Instead, Rebecca looks like she’s about to combust from excitement and it finally culminates with a squeal and a launch to grapple Riza’s arm; she shimmies her head and shoulders against it. “Do you _know_ how exciting this is? I’m usually on the other side of this! _”_  She lets go and stares at her. “Okay, you spilled, and now I spill. A _blowjob_ -”

Riza interrupts with hands in her face. “ _Tomorrow._ I have to sleep now.”

Rebecca glares. She probably had an outline prepared for her with the thesis on performing a blowjob, and tosses aside the pillow. “Fine. But promise me you won’t take advice from that magazine. The advice in their columns are a running joke.”

“I’ll have your wisdom yet, Mama ‘Becca.”

“You nerd.”

* * *

After her first round of classes, Riza returns home to pick up some materials to study for the upcoming midterms after spring break and lingers for a quick break for lunch. Her plate suddenly clatter from a large weight falling on the table and she nearly leaps from her seat from the fright. Rebecca is smiling, never tearing her gaze from her as she sits. Riza swallows uneasily. “Hi Rebecca.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you’ve said and something doesn’t add up. You forgot to tell me something big. _Very big._ ”

Riza puts down her sandwich, realizing it was only a matter of time, but she thought she’d have more of it. “Look,” she starts, throat suddenly dry.

“Have you been missing work this entire time? Because believe me, sex is sex and _great_ sex is hard to come by, but how does that fit in with your work-study schedule?”

Riza breathes and tries her hardest not to make it look like a sigh of relief. “I don’t work at the library any more.”

“What? What happened? Did you get fired? Do we need to talk to someone? You need this-!”

“Rebecca,” she puts a hand over her frantic friend’s forearm. “I got a new one. One that pays a little more and doesn't make me tired all the time from the overnights.”

“You did?” She asks, almost whimpering it out but relieved.

“Yes, I-”

_“Why didn’t you tell me?”_

She pushes her plate back, taking a sip of tea. “In between classes, settling into this new job, and...well, y’know-”

“Getting fucked to within an inch of your life,” Rebecca helpfully supplies, grinning as Riza chokes on her drink. “Yeah, I can see how it would just get pushed back with everything else. Honestly though - is it a better job? I guess anything is better than what you were already doing at the library.”

Riza nods, putting her mug down. “It’s like an assistant job. Basically I have to do a ton of menial labour that the professors don’t want to do themselves.”

“Oh, like printing off papers and that sorta stuff?”

“Yeah. At least it _relates_ to my degree a bit more - and being employed by the university will look great on my resume. The hours aren’t as consistent but even then the pay is still _way_ above what the library was offering. So there’s that.”

Rebecca smiles brightly, before her expression slips into something far more sinister. _“Oh my god,_ does this mean you’re working for Mr. Hot Pants?”

She goes very still. “Who?”

Her friend levels her with a look, the kind that tells her _I know you’re playing cute and it’s certainly not working on me._ “Your professor,” she explains. “Am I gonna start hearing about some hot love triangle where you’re fucking both of them on the side-”

_“‘Becca-”_

“I mean, it was only a few weeks ago that you were saying that you had the hots for him-” Rebecca gasps suddenly. “It’s not _him_ , is it?” The accusatory tone is far too real and Riza ducks her head, cheeks flaming.

Riza says quietly, “Rebecca, please.”

“You're right, you goody two-shoes. Do you think he has girlfriend? He looks the type who looks good but is boring in everything else.”

Trying her best not to laugh at that _ridiculously wrong_ theory, Riza mumbles in agreement. She doesn’t want to talk about him directly. She’s afraid she’ll slip.

“But have you _seen_ that new business professor? He's got a dumb name like Havoc or whatever. Who cares though - he’s _hot_ . Do you think if I enrolled in his class and did badly he’d give me _tutoring lessons?”_  The innuendo rolls off her tongue like quicksilver and Riza can’t stop the girlish giggle that escapes her.

“I’m sure if you asked nicely he would consider it. But don’t all those teacher-student fantasies rely on the student being bad?”

Rebecca waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Are _you,_ Riza Hawkeye, telling me to break the rules?”

She looks are her smiling friend; if it were three months earlier, Riza would have quickly advised her friend to _not_ get involved with the faculty, but now she has no room to speak. Circling the whorls on the wooden dining table with her finger, Riza opts to change the subject instead.

“Your family is going to Creta for the spring break, right? I’m sure you’ll find a tall young boy there to thoroughly shag.”

Rebecca swoons dramatically in her chair, resting the back of her hand on her forehead artfully. “A girl can dream.”

* * *

In the middle of that same week, it dawns on Riza that she never actually got around to asking him for his _academic_ advice on the final essay set for the class.  While the due date for that particular proposal still isn’t due until after spring break, she’s always been insistent on keeping on top of her assignments. But hours have passed and the academic jargon she’s been trying to decipher for the last few hours are bleeding together at this point. Any chance of further study is unlikely now.

The chewed highlighter cap taps rapidly against her surface of her desk as she weighs her options. She could always email him, wait for a response, but she doesn't want to do that. It feels weird and unnecessary to suddenly revert back to this clinical relationship when she knows that he is not as cut-and-dry as his course would lead her to believe. It’s difficult what with their boundaries blurred, or eradicated altogether.

She checks her watch; the walk isn’t too bad and she figures she has got enough time to duck past his office before the closing hours. Quicker then sending out an email and waiting for a response, Riza rationalizes. Plus, she hadn’t received any message about whether he’d be needing her in the library or whether she would be free to get a proper night’s sleep before the weekend.

There’s a certain anxiety she recognizes in her walk. Her breaths are short, and she was chewing and tapping a highlighter. Riza doesn’t want to say it’s from the talk with Rebecca because it’s not. No, but it was something Rebecca said. Her phone’s calendar prove her right: her father’s visit is looming and she’s been more apprehensive about it lately.

She’s so lost in her own thoughts she doesn’t even think about what a closed door for his office means, and opens it on autopilot.  Halfway through asking a question, she realises he is not alone.

There’s a heavy silence suddenly, and her eyes darting between his pointed stare from his seat and the other woman’s surprised expression standing in front of his desk. “I’m sorry, sir,” she stammers.“I didn’t-”

“Knocking is generally the polite thing to do when a door is closed,” he answers smoothly, politely, but she knows a subtly annoyed tone when she hears it. “Please wait outside Miss Hawkeye. I’ll be with you shortly.”

She looks at his well-dressed guest again, momentarily dumbstruck. “My apologies,” she says, backtracking out of the office, and nearly slams the door shut in her haste to leave. Her face is hot and she groans, running a hand roughly through her hair. _Of all the days for there to actually be someone in his office…_ She’s gotten comfortable. _Too_ comfortable.

Riza spies a seat up a small stairwell on the opposite side of the corridor. It’s tucked away enough that she’s unlikely to be seen unless you _know_ where to look. She doesn’t want to face the other woman if she can help it. It was bad enough making a fool of herself in front of Roy; but at least she knew he wouldn’t judge her. She isn’t sure about the woman - her clothing indicated wealth, status - maybe a benefactor of the university? Senior faculty?

She counts nearly six minutes before his door opens once more and from her vantage point she can see the other woman subtly trying to look for her. She exchanges a few more words with Roy - too low for her to hear well, but whatever they’re talking about, it’s enough to make him smile. Whatever it was, she hasn’t seen him animated like that outside - well, certainly never here, in a professional context.

She must be a friend, Riza concludes. He wouldn’t be that friendly with a colleague. Not that it mattered to her, what he did in his spare time wasn’t her concern.

He watches the woman leave, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Another minute passes before he speaks.

“You can come out now. She’s gone.”

Feeling somewhat chastised, Riza quietly steps out the stairwell, hesitating on the final steps. She matches his height, and she watches as his eyes retrace her path.

“Were you _eavesdropping_ on us?” It’s not quite an accusatory tone; she can almost detect a hint of pride, strangely enough.

“No,” she says stubbornly.

Roy gives her a look that suggests he doesn’t believe her, before waving her back into his office.

“I’ll admit that I’m curious as to what would make you just barge through my door without warning,” he begins, closing the door and leaning against the wood. He regards her with a fond expression.

She breathes in, smells his cologne, and reminds herself that she came here with purpose.

He pushes himself off the door before walking closer to her, a dirty smirk beginning to grow. “Could it be you’ve gotten too familiar with your post?”

He’s almost reached her when her brain finally kicks into gear. She realises how this must look and she stumbles back, throwing an arm out as if to ward him off, nearly smacking the paper in his face. “No, I’d like you to take a look at this essay topic.” It sounds like a lame excuse coming out of her mouth, for the sake of propriety, but she is determined to try and salvage the vestiges of the decorum they had left.

He visibly deflates before grabs the paper from her hands and places his old man glasses on his face before gesturing her to one of the chairs. “That’s certainly less exciting.”

Riza settles comfortably, glancing away as she dryly says, “Surely, you have others to entertain you.”

“Not exactly.”

She glances back and Roy is holding his chin in his hand, looking at her in that same glazed expression. After a moment, he shifts his focus to her work. “Oh, before I forget - you have this upcoming Friday off,” he tells her suddenly.

“I do?” She doesn’t mean to sound so surprised.

He nods, looking through the stapled paper. “Yes, the university is hosting a faculty dinner before the holiday.”

“Oh.” She is confused to find herself feeling rather disappointed. “Whatever will I do with my time now?”

He snorts and smiles at her, his glasses framing his dark eyes. “Surely, you have others to entertain you.”

Riza laughs, and tries to quash the small feeling of discontent gnawing away in her gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I can feel the bad things skittering  
>  behind vibrating lips and  
> I can feel the slime bubbling behind fingers   
> clasped so desperately over my mouth._
> 
> _Should I let them out?  
>  These are my darkest thoughts,  
> the bad things lurking in the closet._
> 
> _Is this how I tear the monsters from my body?_


	9. he was my first act of godhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the delay in updating!!! mar and i try to keep to a consistent schedule but sometimes other things can get in the way. pls accept the behemoth 8.5k chapter (we may have gotten a bit carried away lmao). all your comments are so wonderful and we love sharing this story with u!!!!!
> 
> included in this chapter is art by the amazing [colonelhotstuff](https://colonelhotstuff.tumblr.com/)! go give them some love over on tumblr!
> 
> (natalie wee, letters from persephone)

Boredom befalls her unexpectedly after Olivier leaves Friday afternoon. Riza doesn’t recognize it at first because she’s so been occupied with one thing or another and it’s foreign for her to feel so… stagnant. Roaming from her room to the kitchen to her closet, she finally settles for the shared living room and the place is quiet and empty, because only the stars know where Rebecca is. Her phone is going straight to voicemail; meaning her best friend does not want to be disturbed.

Sighing, her arm falls over the couch arm like a limp noodle, and Riza looks at the freshly tidied apartment. Pacing herself would have been a better idea; she’d need to occupy herself while her roommates were away on break. She’d have to stay here when she wasn’t over _there_ and if she’s already without anything to do after the second hour, then she might have to pick up a new hobby for the time being. She sinks further into the couch and sits there in silence. Looking at the bright numbers on her phone, it feels like it’s been half past seven for an eternity. She flips through the channels, watches an infomercial or two, and for kicks, she even touches herself -- right there in the open of the living room for kicks-- with mild success. Then, she checks her lockscreen once for what feels like the billionth time and it’s not even eight o’clock.

It unnerves her, being this idle, with nothing to do, nothing to immediately work on and no deadline to meet. All her other course assignments have been done, leaving the upcoming two-week long break free of academic work. Roy hadn’t even left her with an assignment or articles to highlight for the weekend, like he normally would do. _Enjoy your long weekend, I’ll reach out on Monday for what we’ll be working on for the break_ , he had told her. She fights the grimace forming then, because Rebecca leaves late tonight to be with her family and she scratches her head wondering what she’ll do for an entire two days.

She stares up at the bland popcorn ceiling, imagining this is what complaining brats must feel like. An entire two days to herself is a dream, she tells herself. Two days! She can cook, she can bake, she can organize her closet, maybe even Rebecca’s closet because that is a horror show. But none of this sounds appealing, not in the least. And that niggling little thing, the annoying answer that’s fluttering around the edges of her mind telling her that’s what she really wants, Riza keeps it at bay.

She doesn’t want to admit that she searched the university website to see if there was any information on his event, even if it is out of sheer curiosity. Nonetheless she comes up empty; without a doubt, something students aren’t going to be privy to, she reasons. But her palm is itching and it’s aching for her phone. Just one curious message, or a coy one. If he doesn’t answer, then it won’t be the end of the world. Simple as that.

It doesn’t settle well in her stomach. Nerves are getting to her and she doesn’t have Rebecca to egg her on for the confidence she lacks in that _one_ department. _If_ he wants to talk to her then he would’ve sent her message.

Except now she sounds like the girls Rebecca brings around, who Riza only knows by acquaintance, worrying themselves to an early grave about where they stand in their latest relationship. Hers isn’t as complicated. She doesn’t believe this is the be-all and end-all, and the day she does will be the day she deserves a good wake-up call.

It’s an odd gray area with too many shades to define it. In the last few weeks, she’s spent more time with him _alone_ than she has with anyone else - ever. More than anything, she _likes_ to spend time with him because he’s good company. They fuck. They laugh. They bicker. They work. They fuck again. It’s that simple, like close colleagues who occasionally bump uglies. Though, she’s afraid if it might be more complicated than that. She worries that it is _becoming_ complicated.

Eventually, she blames it on boredom when her thumb hits “send” and she doesn’t want to wonder what are they exactly.

 

> **Avecilla, 8:04pm** How’s your dinner going?

Fuck buddies? Friends with benefits? _Does it matter, Riza?_ She busies herself with something else, reminding herself that Rebecca has spoiled her with immediate responses.

 

> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:24pm** Dinner?
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:25pm** Oh. Terrible. Hardly a dinner. Hor d'oeuvres at most. Or I guess the kids are calling it tapas now.
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:27pm** If it was any drier in here, I could start a fire

Riza wipes the obvious smile on her face but a small giddiness bubbles from his response. She ignores it, or pushes it down, when really she wants to just embrace it. As nonchalantly as can, she responds:

 

> **Avecilla, 8:29pm** Please don't

Are crushes even possible on people you’re already sleeping with? Were that the case, it is a non-issue. At the end of the day, and until the end of the semester, he _is_ her professor. _And as wrong as that is already, let’s not mix something as messy as emotions into it._ Her phone lights up again.

 

> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:30pm** Oh wait
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:30pm** there's a bar
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:32pm** bless the rains in africa
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:35pm** What about you? How’s your evening?

She smiles to herself as she thinks of the response:

 

> **Avecilla, 8:35pm** The roommates are gone and the boss has left me with not much else to do. Sigh.
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:40** all work and no play makes Riza a dull girl?
> 
> **Avecilla, 8:41pm** Bored, more like
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:42** That’d make two of us.

She mulls on his last reply for a while, staring at it, unsure if there was any conversation left, and if she tried to start another one, would she be trying too hard? Trying hard for what? Or is this him ending the conversation? She’s overanalyzing over five little words until her phone vibrates again, mercifully pulling her out of an argument with herself.

 

> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:49pm** Why dont you come over?

There it is, the proposition she secretly craved. She chews on the corner of her mouth and stares at the floor. Her legs cross over another and her fingers tap against the screen.

 

> **Avecilla, 8:51pm** What happened to having the night off?
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:51pm** HA
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:52pm** There’s no work getting done tonight.
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:52pm** There’s a spare key over the threshold. Let yourself in if I’m not there.
> 
>  
> 
> **Avecilla, 8:52pm** Who leaves a spare key there?
> 
>  
> 
> **Avecilla, 8:52pm** You do know robberies are a thing.
> 
>  
> 
>  

Why does she resort to banter? Is she incapable of having a normal conversation without instigating the man?

 

> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:52pm** Har har.
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:53pm** If you’d rather not, I understand.
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:53pm** But there’s a certain menu I rather be eating out of.

_Smooth motherfucker._ She scoffs at his sly remark, but her cheeks are warmed. An involuntary smile pulls at her lips just as warmth begins spreading _elsewhere_ too. It’s tempting - entirely too tempting. She thinks about her flatmates, gone for the break. She thinks about how she has a relatively free schedule this weekend with no prior commitments to uphold.

It’s too easy of a choice to make.

 

> **Avecilla, 8:55pm** You let me know when I should leave.
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:55pm** It’s wrapping up soon. Shouldn’t be long now with a 20ish min ride back
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:56pm** Do you need to be picked up? I can call a taxi for you.
> 
> **Avecilla, 8:56pm** How chivalrous of you. I think I can get there on my own.
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 8:57pm** I’ll see if i can’t escape sooner rather than later
> 
> **Avecilla, 8:58pm** In a rush, are you?

Leaving the cheeky grin on her face, Riza gets off the couch when her phone begins to vibrate.

“Apparently you can’t even wait _that_ long.”

His mirthful laugh sounds in her ear and she shivers pleasantly from it. Roy takes a long enough pause and there’s some kind of classical music in the background along with familiar clinking of cutlery and hum of chatter. “Are you _sure_ you don’t need me to call you a taxi - it’s late and dark outside.”

Her phone is wedged against her shoulder and her ear as she sifts through her underwear drawer. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll be fine with the public transportation this fine city has to offer.”

He makes a disgruntled noise, clearly not happy with her answer.

Riza smirks, amused for his concern about her well-being, but dips a brow, irked that he’s suddenly started caring about that now; she doesn’t hesitate to call him out on it: “You know, I use the bus to get to yours every other time. You don’t think I just teleport, do you?”

“You’re right. But never this late.”

“It’ll be fine,” she stresses, shimmying as best she can out of her loungewear with only one hand.

“And what happened to all those robberies you were mentioning earlier? Do those criminals specialize in only trespassing and theft? Or do they partake in other illicit activities, like when they see pretty girls walking alone?”

“The longer you spend arguing with me about this, the longer it’ll take for me to get dressed _and_ the later it’ll get.”

He grumbles something and she pauses until Riza can practically see the grin forming on his face. He exhales heavily and it rumbles down the line. “What are you wearing?”

She’s about to respond that right now it’s technically _nothing_ , but a commotion on the other end interrupts her. There’s somebody shrieking and other people start shouting. Riza pulls the phone away from her ear to save her ear from the shrill noises. It’s hard to make out any actual _words_ , but the tone is more than enough to tell her that someone is in _deep_ shit.

Her mouth opens to call his name, but the call disconnects abruptly and Riza is left with the familiar beeping of a lost connection. Her thumb hesitates over the screen and thinks better of calling him again. A faculty event like that was bound to have a few staff over-indulging; if they were anything like some of the parties she has attended over the years there was always bound to be at least one incident.

She’s quick to change out of the comfortable sweatpants and old t-shirt, and into a relatively casual dress that’s probably shorter than what you should wear at church, but still presentable. Not that this outfit was the main event anyway. Underneath she wears the result of a successful shopping trip with Rebecca - it’s nothing _ridiculous_ , not like the ensembles her best friend had begged her to try on - but the surprise would be entertaining for both of them.

Her phone buzzes from a new message and she scoops it up off the bed as she grabs her keys from her bedside table.

 

> **Spanish Inquisition, 9:08pm** Might be a little delayed. Get yourself a drink while you wait.

* * *

If at all possible, his place feels emptier without him filling it’s living spaces. She’s not used to entering it like this, when it is quiet and cool. Anytime she’s anywhere but her personal bedroom, Riza tries to take up as little space as possible and leave it as if she were never there. It’s strange to be in a place so foreign, yet in a place she frequently visits and stays and sleeps …amongst other things.

Her coat and bag settle neatly over the arm of his couch, and she wanders towards the kitchen where she leaves the spare key on the marbled counter. An opened bottle of wine sits in the middle of the island with an empty glass next to it, both glinting from the recessed lights overhead. Riza picks up the bottle and doesn’t recognise the label - not that she’s a wine connoisseur with an exhaustive repertoire detailing her favored vineyards, but she knows red wine and she knows port. Pouring herself a glass, she admires the deep hues. The fragrance of the wine wafts in her direction with spicy, almost leathery nuances of the alcohol, but it is sweet on her lips and warming all the way down to her belly.   

The glass is cradled against her chest as she roams the apartment devoid of its tenant. It doesn’t feel like a home, but rather a space where Roy exists when he’s not at university. There’s hardly any photos around, she realises once more with no indication of the life he leads outside his career. He owns the essentials, but nothing more. No decorations, no accolades, or souvenirs. She’d check the study, which seems more settled than the rest of the flat, but she doesn’t need to know his life story - Rebecca’s curiosity has rubbed off on her, that’s all. But the questions begs what does she know of him really? Except that it ricochets back with, what does he know of her?

Her gaze flickers every so often to the front door when she hears a car drive past. She’s not nervous - well, not in the true sense of the word, more like antsy. This feels like new territory for them, being here without the pretext of “work”. She’s just now realizing it and Riza isn’t sure what to make of it.

From her bag, her phone pings.

 

> **Becca Catalina, 9:46pm** what does nutmeg look like

Her face scrunches in confusion.

 

> **Riza Hawkeye, 9:47pm** its brown. In a box.
> 
> **Riza Hawkeye, 9:47pm** it’ll say nutmeg on the side
> 
> **Becca Catalina, 9:48pm** would i find it in the fridge?
> 
> **Riza Hawkeye, 9:49pm** bECCA. Its a spice!
> 
> **Becca Catalina, 9:55pm** like old spice? So the bathroom????? Bitch idk
> 
> **Becca Catalina, 9:55pm** Mrs. Catalina needs it for her famous cheese sauce
> 
> **Becca Catalina, 9:55pm** shes lost in the sauce
> 
> **Riza Hawkeye, 9:56pm** youre fucking with me arent you

She sets her phone down to pour herself a second glass. Roy is a man with good taste. Drinking socially really isn’t her preference, but if left to her own devices, she could drink this just for the taste. Like the sangria Rebecca makes whenever they host a party, but less bougie. Or more bougie. She doesn’t know. Or care. She twists her head as she hears a car engine shut off outside and the effects of the alcohol aren’t fucking around. The room moves on a lag, her cheeks feel warm to the touch, and she inspects the bottle again for the alcohol content only to set it back down with an “oof.”

The front door opens and Roy grabs her attention without even needing to say a single word; he need only enter the room and she finds herself drawn to him. She meets his eyes across the space of the open-plan room, and lifts her glass in greeting. He smiles, cheeks dimpling. There’s something much too homey about the entire exchange, but she doesn’t have the time to comment on it. Seconds after shutting the door, he all but runs with swift strides into the kitchen, plucks the wine glass from her at the stem, and cups her face before kissing her soundly on the mouth, like some kind of greeting in another language she doesn’t understand. His lips are hot and meld against her own, his tongue running along the seam of her mouth, and she opens herself readily for him. Her palms catches her against the edge of the island as his hands tangle into her hair.

The fabric of his suit is still cold from the night chill, her hands move up the front until her fingers curl around the lapels. The taste of wine lingers on his tongue; it’s decadent and warm and mingles so well with hers. Riza lets herself be distracted by just how _good_ his tongue feels against her own, and how his fingers brush over the sensitive skin behind her ears. He is still smiling that gorgeous, dimpled smile when he finally pulls back to look at her properly and Riza finds herself a little breathless as she does the same.

The man is already a menace to her trained focus when he struts around in class with his rolled-up sleeves, but even that doesn’t hold a candle to the Roy Mustang in front of her now: dressed to the nines in what looks like an expensive three-piece suit that’s clearly tailored to highlight his figure. The warm fuzz of the alcohol tears away any inhibition in ogling him. He looks deliciously refined, like nothing she’s ever wanted, but her throat is dry, out of words. She’d like nothing more than to _slowly_ undress him out of it, if she’s honest. He pulls at his tie to loosen it slightly and it only makes the post-makeout arousal worse.

“Find the key alright?” he asks. Riza jerks her head in what she hopes looks like a nod. Roy comes at her again. His breath is hot against her skin when he laughs and drops kisses against the long line of her neck. Riza tilts her head further, biting down hard on her bottom lip to stop a groan from giving him the satisfaction. “I realise,” he continues, nipping at her neck lightly, “that you’re not even legal to drink yet - but you don’t strike me as someone who particularly cares about breaking rules.”

Her breath hitches as he kisses his way back up to her mouth, her brain only half-computing that she needs to respond. It’s hard though - his lips are like a brand on her skin, and she could drown in the smell of him, all spice and undertones of sandalwood. Her arms curl around his neck and she raises herself on tiptoes to kiss him once more, enjoying how his hands grip at her waist even tighter.

“I care,” she manages finally, breathlessly. “For some.”

A hum sounds in his throat in agreement and she can almost feel the vibration of it in her arms. His fingers relax their grip slightly, rubbing in comforting circles.

The port works its magic through her now: her body, once tensed, is relaxed and fluid, a different sort of giddiness buzzes inside her, just under her skin where she is unnaturally warm all over. She’s so comfortable where she is that it feels abrupt and sudden when he gently removes her arms from around his neck; she fights the uncharacteristic urge to pout.

“I’m sorry about earlier. Hopefully you haven’t completely lost your hearing.” She picks up on the joking tone, but Riza tilts her head, narrows her eyes, and hopes that’s enough for him to clarify. He smiles at her again. “On the phone?”

Riza perks as he moves towards the port. She grabs her wine glass when she remembers it on sight. “Oh, right. What happened? Was someone murdered?”

“Nearly,” Roy chuckles. The bottle pops audibly when he uncorks it and pours himself a serving of his own. “One of my colleagues lacked the decency to at least be discreet with her affairs. Instead, she had the gall to boast about it by bringing her mistress to the dinner, under the assumption no one there would be able to recognize her wife. Except someone did know her, notified the wife, and the missus arrived to yell all kinds of obscenities and lay out their dirty laundry.”

Riza frowns from imagining a messy fallout in front of professional colleagues. This is the kind of gossip Rebecca eats up, straight out of a Spanish soap opera. “Who was it?”

He’s in the middle of a sip when he chokes it back. “One of the adjunct professors from the Physics department,” he says, strained, after clearing his throat. Roy drinks the rest in a quick swig, as if it were a shot. “Older, but new to the university. Not the sort of thing you expect at an event like this.”

“I can imagine,” she responds, somewhat bored. This might be Rebecca’s cup of tea but not hers. She’s staring off into the distance and she says without a second thought, “Are all you professors prone to misbehaving?” Riza’s finished her glass quickly and reaches for the bottle when she sees him watching her with dark eyes and a cocky smirk on his face. She has the question “What?” on her lips when he breathes in and pushes off from the island countertop.

“Prone to misbehaving?” Roy parrots back and approaches her slowly.

She tries to say words and none will come out. Her mouth forms a straight line. Her mind is trying to reconfigure itself, wondering if she really did say that out loud or if she kept it as a thought, but he closes the distance and, somehow, her back meets a wall, leaving her fumbling mind to short circuit.

His palms are flat against the wall with her head trapped in between. He’s looking down at her and she feels so small and inadequate in her department store dress versus his formal attire ensemble. It’s a crude metaphor, she realizes, symbolizing the gestures in his arsenal to weaken her knees, to reduce her thought process to the radio silence she has now, leaving it up to her senses to react for her and elevate her heart rate in a matter of seconds. She blames it on inexperience, but it’s beyond that now. He surprises her when she least expects it; when her guard is down and she can’t ever remember when or why she lowers it.

“You think I misbehave?”

Yes. Of course he does. They both do. That’s a no-brainer, and if composure was an ally she would said as much. Her eyes are probably wide and her mouth twitches for the words. At the moment she finally begins to create a sentence, his lips kiss her neck warmly and softly and she shivers with her nails going into her palms. The air she sucks in is cool compared to the rest of her.

He’s always in the habit of wedging a knee in between her thighs. Whatever his reasons, it makes her painfully aware how wet she is, feeling that moisture and heat - ripe for sex - is sobering and inebriating all at once.  The hem of her dress lifts as he bunches any material below her hips into his hands. There’s a pulse throbbing in between her legs, and her hands raise to lose themself in his hair.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks huskily as his hands slide down the length of the wall and greet her hips.

Riza shakes her head, eyes closed. “No,” she manages to choke out. With all the logic against this: no, she most definitely doesn’t want this or _them_ to stop. What’s worse is that she can’t put to words as to _why,_ tipsy or not _._ “But we both know why you called me here.” He hitches her leg over his hip and his hand coast up to her rear, but she finds composure now to finish, if only for her pride. “Don’t kid yourself.”

“I thought that much was obvious, but educate me.”

Riza’s fingers stroke his erection over his dress pants and he leans back, struggling to keep his expression from wavering now that it’s her turn to smirk mischievously. “To misbehave together, _sir_.”

The expression on his face alters with subtlety: his gaze darkens, his jaw clenches, and underneath her fingers, his cock twitches. “How astute, Miss Hawkeye. And what a lovely number you have on,” he says, eyeing the length of her dress.

Her hand never stops. “I could say the same for you.”

“Why don’t you go see how _this_ looks on my bedroom floor?” He releases her leg and backs away, finally unknotting his tie. “Preferably with everything else that you’re wearing.”

She starts for the bedroom and before she turns the corner, she looks back at him pouring himself another glass. “Why don’t you come take them off me?”

In the current lighting, he smirks and she’s a little too turned on by it, how the shadows are cast in all the right ways across his face. “Because I have other surprises.”

Riza smiles sweetly; at first to him and then to herself once she’s inside the bedroom. She pauses, fingers hovering over the buttons of her dress. The process of removing her shoes and her clothes is quicker than when she put it on. Her things are left hanging over the back of an armchair in the room, and in the mirror she catches her reflection in just lingerie. Whether it’s bolstered by the alcohol or Rebecca’s wolf-whistles, confidence is on her like a second skin. An unintelligent reaction is what she’s gunning for, and hopefully, he’ll deliver.

She settles on the bed with a shiver. Spring isn’t upon them yet and the apartment is still warming from the cool air. She listens for footsteps down the hallway. As the time stretches on she finds herself twiddling her thumbs. Riza picks up the printed journal on his nightstand - one she recognises from a week ago - and flicks through it distractedly.

When he finally does enter the room, he has a full glass of port in one hand and a cloth bag in the other. The ends of his tie are undone and hangs on either side of his neck. His hair is more ruffled than she remembers, and buttons at the top of the white shirt are undone. The sight of him in this quasi-state of undress makes her curl her toes. He doesn’t take notice of her - not _fully_ until he places the bag on his dresser and turns around, mouth already forming a teasing remark.

He doesn’t get far. She sees the cogs in his head coming to a complete stop. The muscles in his neck tense and he swallows thickly, thumbing a collar that’s already undone from seeing her lounged across the bed with her head propped up by her palm in nothing but lingerie. The soft pink of the lace complimented her skin well. It wasn’t the most daring of choices to go with - certainly not _real_ lingerie, but she knew that. The push up bra certainly accentuates what she already has. Riza will have to thank Rebecca later.

But, as much as she valued her best friend’s opinion, that all fell to the wayside in the face of who she _actually_ bought and wore it for - and the glazed look in his eyes is more than enough to make the whole ordeal of fitting rooms worth it.

She’s well aware of how his eyes of how his eyes are roaming up and down her body. “Like I said, I care for some rules,” she teases, pushing up to a sit and brushing her hair to one side. “But I think this is a good compromise.”

Roy wets his bottom lip. “I think I could agree to that. Is this-” he gestures towards her “-for me?”

“It depends. Do you like it?”

“Very much,” he answers, lips splitting into a wide grin.

“Then you should join me.” Riza shifts off the bed and stalks towards him. “It’s not fair that you’re still all dressed up and-”

“I have another idea,” he interrupts and pushes her back to the bed. “No, tonight isn’t going to be about me, it’s going to be about you. And seeing as how you were so kind with _your_ present-” he retrieves the cloth bag from the dresser and passes it to her, “-I should think it only right that I return the favour.” He pauses to take a drink, dark eyes watching her intently. “It won’t bite,” he promises.

Her fingers undo the drawstrings quickly. “Are you sure about that, I - oh!”

A slim, almost cylindrical object falls into her palm.

“It’s a vibrator,” she says after a beat, hoping her voice hasn’t betrayed anything. “I don’t understand - sorry, I just-”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Not the most, uh, _normal_ of gifts, I know. But as much as I like figuring out what you like and _how_ you like it, I also enjoy a good demonstration. That is, of course, if it’s within your comfort zone. If it isn’t, all you need to do is say the word and that will just be a nice present from me. And then we’ll just misbehave.” He takes another sip of port here. He drags the armchair closer to the bed and sits down, resting his left leg on top of his knee. “Together.”

Half-smirking, she rolls the vibrator over in her hand, testing its weight. “Tell me if I understood this right. You want to watch me... use this.”

“Correct.”

“While you sit there.”

He nods.

 _“Watching,”_ she repeats with emphasis.

His shoulders shrug, but he leans forward and places a warm hand on her bare knee. “Listen, I can understand if you’re hesitant, but if you’re uncomfortable, there’s no pressure-”

“That’s not it.” The assurance is appreciated but wasted on her when she knows as much. She wouldn’t be here in new lingerie for kicks. Wait; that’s exactly why she’s here. “A scientist to the bone, aren’t you? This is your research. You have your hypothetical but you need the practical to confirm your theory.”

“If we’re to follow that analogy, then yes. But moreover I think it’s important for me to not only know exactly what you _do_ like, but also what you _don’t_.” He fixes her with a heavy stare. “Show me how Riza Hawkeye does it.”

A chill runs through her. “You like what you see that much?”

“That...” He looks into his glass, almost sheepishly and then, their eyes meet again. “And you’re stunning when you’re all hot and bothered. I like watching it; it’s an attractive look on you.”

She flushes at his casual admission. “I never would have guessed the Chem Lit professor to have a _kink_ for voyeurism, Professor Mustang. It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?”

“That sounds awfully accusatory coming from the girl who has a kink for authority figures.”

“Is that what you are?” There’s teasing laughter in her rhetorical question. She’s pushing herself up the bed to the pillows when her ankle is snagged and she’s pulled back to the edge of the bed. At some point she must’ve gasped because her mouth is open as watches him stand over her with a devious stare.

“Yes,” he tells her emphatically. “And you _like_ it.” He releases her ankle and their eyes never break contact as she slowly retreats back to the pillows. She’s breathing deeply and trying not to just jump his bones right then and there. She grips onto the vibrator tightly as she leans back against the pillows, watching him unbuttons his waistcoat with one hand, shrugging out of it and tossing it somewhere behind him. His tie is next, and she follows his lead, slipping the straps of her bra off her shoulders and fiddling with the hooks at the back. The flimsy material slips off her easily and she tosses it to the side of the bed. Her fingers play with the lace on her underwear, hesitating.

He raises an eyebrow at her as if to say _go on_. She struggles for a moment getting her underwear off - he snickers at that, and in retaliation she aims directly at his head. He catches it deftly, winking in an obnoxious fashion before tucking them into his trouser pocket.

“Perv.”

He grins, unashamed. “The controls should be fairly self-explanatory. There’s different levels-”

“Levels?” She feels like she’s showing her inexperience here; barring the awful gag gifts she got from Rebecca at her eighteenth, her experience with toys of this nature has been practically zero. Her fingers have always been good enough to get the job done. What if it didn’t feel good?

She pushes the dial with her thumb and all of a sudden Riza finds herself very intimidated. The motor is _powerful,_ vibrating her entire hand as well. Even adjusting it back to the lowest setting she can figure out seems like it will be too much for her. The sound carries in the room awkwardly as she lies back fully on the pillows, her legs bending at the knee. Riza breathes deeply, trying to quell her nerves and slips her other hand through her folds, testing her wetness. She’s slick - abundantly so; the combination her orgasms from earlier in the evening, as well as the effects of the alcohol ensuring that every touch glides across her sensitised skin. When she draws her fingers back they glisten in the dim light of his bedroom, and she drags them along the skin of her belly, trailing in between the soft skin of her breasts. She hears him shift in the chair.

Carefully, she shifts the vibrator to align against her, the tip barely nudging between her folds and promptly lets her jaw drop as she flicks it on with her thumb. It is _divine_ \- this enough felt like overstimulation for her, the buzzing travelling through her labia and barely brushing against her clit. Her thighs squeeze involuntarily - trapping her hand as one leg digs tightly into the other. Riza can already feel her heart rate begin to rise, her pulse beating heavily in her throat. The sensations are heady and strong, and she lets herself be pulled whichever way the vibrations lead her.

She is too distracted to realise that Roy has moved from the armchair, too focused on the shifting, slippery edge of an orgasm that seems to be eluding her, to realise that he has rested his weight on one knee on the bed. The mattress dips beneath them both as his hands settle on the tops of her knees, thumbs rubbing reassuringly on the soft skin.

“The point of this was that so I could _see_ you,” he tells her softly. She feels him exert pressure and slowly begin to pry her legs apart. “So they’re going to stay open, Riza.” His voice remains that soft, quiet timbre but there’s an order lingering behind it and Riza closes her eyes as another wave of pleasure breaks over her. His fingers trail along the inside of her thighs as he continues to separate them. The shift in her hips lets the vibrator slip closer to her clit, and she cries out, her back arching slightly. It’s too much for her - already she feels like she’s barreling towards her orgasm and the feeling of his hands on her, firm and unyielding is conjuring up fantasies of where else those hands could be put to work and she shouldn’t _enjoy_ how hot the idea of being dominated physically - however lightly - makes her feel.

But it doesn’t come. _She_ doesn’t come - instead, she feels the familiar sensation _rise_ in her, somehow moving out of reach once more. Every shift of her hips brings a new dimension to her pleasure, but equally she feels the pressure build within her. It expands and fills her, and she barely notices the heavy weight of his hands leave her thighs, too wrapped up in her own pleasure to even open her eyes. Her free hand brushes up against her chest, her fingers pulling and pinching at her nipples roughly. At this point Riza can’t even register it as painful - she’s gone _beyond_ the parameters she was aware of for how she could feel.

Her moans and gasps are involuntary now, offered freely as she gyrates her hips against the vibrator, trying to find the exact position that she keeps passing over in fleeting little jumps. She feels fit to explode, and then -

The beginning of her orgasm hits her hard and unexpectedly. It’s suddenly just _upon_ her, crackling up her spine and fizzing along her skin. She’s uncaring of how her body twists and contorts as she wills the sensations to keep going, pressing herself tightly against the vibrator, lungs heaving as she sinks back into the mattress, limbs unlocking and muscles untensing.

The vibrator is switched off, and all Riza can hear is her heavy breathing. Phantom vibrations tingle along her arm and she balls up her hand into a fist, squeezing tightly.

Coming down from her high, she cracks an eyelid open and sees him stroking himself. Her heart is already pounding but even more so at the sight of him, sinking into the armchair, head back and softly groaning - it elevates her heart rate, so drunk at the sight of him that it puts her on her knees and in between his. He looks surprised to see her there but easily relinquishes the control.

She wastes no time taking her tongue and flattening it against his cock until she reaches the tip where she circles and wets it. Goosebumps raise on her bare arms hearing moan louder than she’s ever heard him, mumbling “fuck” at the tail end. Her ears get extremely warm, but it encourages her. Her mouth easily takes him in. She loves the feel of him around her lips, the way his fingers go through her hair, the way he _squirms_ , and hearing his breath quicken.

Different from before, she finds that it’s easier to take him _further_ down her throat and hold him there. It’s something he _extremely_ likes, apparent by the way his eyes are clenched shut and mouth open in a gasp. He says her name and rolls his R’s, like he can’t control it, expletives in his language, and it’s more than she thought she could get from pleasing a man with her mouth. She’s never seen him more vulnerable, gripping at the armrests and cracking an eye to see her looking at him, and she’s none too surprised to find _that_ incredibly attractive on him too.

Her eyes close and she readjusts on the hard floor. Her hands hands travel up his pants, feeling the taut, tense muscle of strong legs underneath. Her fingers dig into his ass to pull him closer to take him in deeper. She uses that moment for her tongue to dance around the base and he looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, alternating between arching over her and leaning back into the chair with the struggle to catch his breath while she holds hers. Releasing him sends pleasant little shockwaves, tingling straight down her to her sex and pulsing with need.

Spittle connects them at the bottom of her lip and the tip of his cock. Hastily, she swats it away, not knowing better and thinking it’s an embarrassment. But when she looks up there’s that dark glaze in his eyes that spells out hunger and desire as he catches his breath and hitches her own.

 _Just fuck me,_ she thinks, but in her mind there’s an element of desperation to it. And on her knees, it feels more like a prayer.

The armchair scrapes the wood floor as he stands. She follows suit. He doesn’t say anything until she backs into the bed to a sit. “You’re just full of surprises today, aren’t you?”

She smirks. “You make it sound like it’s a bad thing,” she tells him, lying down.

 _“You_ are a bad thing.”

His hands ghost down her thighs, hooking on her knees and pulls her legs up so her feet are flat on the bed, exposing herself to him. Roy finishes unbuttoning his shirt and untucks it from his pants with a stretch so every wretchedly toned muscle on his torso flexes and shifts, his scar basically dancing. The shirt falls off his shoulders and rests on his biceps. “Everything... in moderation.”

He stops with his hands at his belt, looking at her with a half-cocked smirk and then down to where she’s touching herself from watching him undress.

Two can play at that game, she surmises.

“I think we’ve both failed at moderating ourselves if we can’t even go one Friday evening without finding ourselves in this position.” He brings her ever closer to the edge by her bent knees. “But I’m willing to bear it.”

“Such a heavy burden,” she teases, adjusting her hips against his hands. His cock brushes up against her and the heat is almost too much for her to cope with.

She breathes in and a moan escapes on the exhale. Her hair is fanned out on the the bed and she tries to find purchase on the sheets to hold onto as the first point of entry prickles and instigates every nerve of her body from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. All her sensations are heightened and he just feels _so good,_ like he fits just for her _._ Or it’s that stretch. Or it’s the fact that she’s tighter around him from playing with herself.  

She’s had sex with alcohol before, but something is marginally different. The noises being made hardly allow her to think. The gradually increasing pace limits how long she can dwell on it and her head moves from one side to another before she’s scratching against the sheets or running her fingers through her hair or palming her own breast or whatever else that will help her find balance on the tightrope she’s crossing before she inevitably falls, before she plunges into something sweeter. He brings her this with each stroke, with each thrust into her; throwing her world off-kilter from the moment she stepped into his class. It’s fucking perfect, poetic even. Her chest feels like it’s fit to burst from the sexual euphoria.

Until he slows down and then stops altogether. Her neck cranes to look at him, offended.

“I- we,” he stammers, clearing his throat. “We forgot-”

 _Protection_. She exhales heavily, letting her head fall back. Her mind is hazy from her sensations going off that something like a condom seems so inconsequential. He’s still inside her and any movement is a reminder of what she could be having if he’d only move his hips. She mutters something about plan B or pulling out. Impatiently, her legs curl around him and nudges him onto the bed, a demand that he should continue. Reckless in every definition of the word. But, he catches himself with his arms at either side of her. Drunk on the same libation, he obeys her orders, or whines, and his hand finds the small of her back and lifts her up to carry them further up the bed.

It’s harder to find that same rhythm, the same wind up as before. But their bodies rock and sway against each other once more. Her legs are wrapped around his waist, his fingers lace over the crown of her head, and she’s sure he will wake up to scratches thanks to her untrimmed nails on his back. She can feel him breathing into her hair, clutching but not pulling it as he traverses deeper and harder with more intimacy than they’ve shared before. Her climax is less of a snap of a branch from a harsh gust of wind and more of a soft wave splashing leisurely on a shore, but it wracks though her body nonetheless, holding him tightly as her body goes rigid from it.

Demonstrating some kind of great control, Roy abruptly stops and releases his seed over her stomach to just inches before reaching her breasts. She lets him go and he’s panting over her body, beading with sweat and glancing at her briefly with a guilty smile. Her body feels boneless; she couldn’t move even if she tried to. He gets up for the bathroom and she spots his mess all over her. Her fingers curiously touch the murky white, viscous substance, never actually having seen it on her … or ever, to be quite honest. It’s sticky and gel-like and she gets the randomest thought of how many potential lives will be cleaned off her in a matter of seconds. It’s even more morbid when she giggles about it.

“Don’t do that.”

She watches him approach her with a washcloth. “Do what?”

“Play with it. It’s already hot enough that it’s _on_ you, it makes it almost unbearable watching you doing what you’re doing.”

“Imagine if I did what you do and put it in my mouth.”

Roy half-scowls as he tries not grin and wipes her clean, taking care to catch her fingers as he does so. “You’d break me,” he says, balling up the cloth and chucking it into his hamper.

Riza leans on her side, similarly to how he found her walking into the bedroom. Dryly, she says, “Hate it break it _to_ you then, but you probably have half a dozen STIs by now.”

He turns to her sharply and for a moment, he must’ve thought she was serious. But then his eyes narrow knowingly and she doesn’t expect his hands to launch like missles to her sides and then _tickling_ her, laughing together post-orgasm with familiarity. Neither of them have enough stamina to keep it for more than a minute and they lie next to each other in silence just stabilizing their bodies, catching their breath, in their nakedness with the cool air finally welcome.

His hands run through his face and rub almost frustratingly. “We’ll head to the pharmacy in the morning - or either of us will. I hate that these things are coming up as an afterthought. But have you been tested?”

She looks at him and he’s legitimately concerned, so much so she could almost laugh. She doesn’t mean to make fun of the matter, but it’s adorable. “Yes, I’m clean. And haven’t been with anyone else since.”

“You haven’t?” He sounds surprised, and she bristles slightly against the notion that he thought otherwise.

She breathes a deep breath to finally settle herself. “No, I don’t exactly have the time. I thought you would have noticed by now I’m not the type of person with lots of sexual experience.”

He chuckles lightly. “Sexual experience doesn’t relate to the number of partners. People have the same kind of sex with different people all the time.”

“When I write my memoirs, I’ll be sure to extrapolate.” The bed shifts when he gets up and he heads for his dresser to dress himself and tosses her a shirt as she asks, “And what about you? Honestly speaking, no judgement whatsoever, how many have found themselves in your classroom and in your bed?”

“Only you.”

This leaves her speechless and she unfolds his shirt quietly, unsure if he’s being honest or if the sincerity she hears in his voice is feigned. She feels that it means something but Riza is pulled from that train of thought when he continues.

“And I’m clean too. No one else since … well, our little thing started it.” He settles back on the bed comfortably, looking at her with his head propped. “I did have something I wanted to ask you.”

Riza only acknowledges him by turning her head.

“If your roommates are gone, would you rather stay here?”

She shifts to look at him properly, dragging the duvet across them. “What do you mean?”

“You mentioned that they had left for the break - I just figured it’d save you some time and money if you stayed over here, instead of commuting constantly.”

Right. Despite the lack of classes for the next two weeks, she _still_ had a job to do - and the increase in hours would be appreciated. It was nice not having to worry about what she was going to eat for dinner, or worrying about paying rent and her bills constantly. The work was certainly _harder -_ Roy certainly doesn’t take it easy on her just because of this... _thing_ on the side, but it left her feeling like she had accomplished something. Her grades were certainly beginning to reflect the amount of literature she was having to review for him.

Too lost in her own thoughts to see the slightly crestfallen look on Roy’s face, she tucks her hair  behind her ear and hums in thought.

“In any case,” he says, pulling her from her woolgathering as he draws her close against his chest, “give it some thought. It’s just an idea.”

* * *

She wakes in the middle of the night, overcome with the sudden urge for a drink of water. Riza gropes blindly for her phone on the nightstand, before she remembers it was left abandoned on the kitchen counter. He’s snoring softly when she slips out of bed. The streetlight sneaking its way through the curtains guides her out of the bedroom with a little difficulty.

She practically inhales the first glass of water and second glass doesn’t stand much of a chance either. On her third, she’s more measured, wandering around the kitchen in search of her phone.

 _3:23am_ , her lockscreen tells her, the brightness nearly blinding against the dim light of the kitchen. There are a few texts from Rebecca, and Riza rests her elbows against the kitchen island as she tries to make sense of the conversation her best friend started the night before.

 

> **Becca Catalina, 9:59pm** no!!! I wanna kno!
> 
> **Becca Catalina, 10:07pm** you could have just told me it was in the pantry you dick
> 
> **Becca Catalina, 10:47pm** im leaving! ily!!!!! good luck with your grapefruit beej!

She smiles fondly at text before throwing her head back to finish the rest of the water. The hard buzz of a vibration next to her nearly makes Riza drop her phone in shock; she’s a little embarrassed at how violently she jerks. Another phone lights up next to her, notifications popping up in quick succession.

She knows she shouldn’t, but the rate of notifications is more than enough to make her more than curious.

The majority of them are in Spanish, she realises as she flicks through them, and what little she knows is not enough to make heads or tails of this conversation. The incoming two texts are more indicative of the nature of the one-sided conversation.

 

> **Axe, 3:25am** Papi x favor
> 
> **Axe, 3:25am** it willb e diff this time

She feels her gut curl unpleasantly into a tight ball. As far as she was aware, he wasn’t a father, but it wasn’t entirely out of the question...and the alternative didn’t bear thinking about. She doesn’t want to doubt him, doubt what he had told her last night but the texts in front of her spell out a different story, one running parallel to hers.

“Riza,” a voice to her left says and she shrieks, the phone clattering noisily onto the marble of the kitchen island. Roy watches her warily, shrugging on a cardigan as he stops in front of the island, and questioning her with a grim stare. “What were you doing with my phone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "x" is also the multiplication symbol. in spanish its said "por" like 2 times 2 is "2 por 2". but in Spanish it can also be woven into replace some words so "por favor"/"please" would be read as "x favor". it's similar to how thai uses "5555" for shorthand as laughter!
> 
> -
> 
> _Waited so long  
>  for fruit mama  
> I found it ripe  
> between antlered thighs  
> in the fields my  
> skull was a crown  
> set on foundations  
> of desire he  
> was my first  
> act of godhood  
> body  
> resurrected from un  
> -speakable places to  
> be mine_
> 
> _Mama I did  
>  not forget sweat  
> from my palms  
> washed  
> the animal of  
> him marble  
> the way you  
> taught me  
> to cradle wounded  
> things  
> cleaned those  
> bones with my own  
> good mouth  
> his  
> fingers  
> wingspan  
> my jaw open_
> 
> _this  
>  is how  
> you break the earth  
> for desire_
> 
> _Beneath dirt  
>  my skin blooms  
> nightshade oh  
> mama we  
> are luminary doves  
> where nothing  
> flies his  
> hair river  
> reeds full  
> moon every night  
> he coaxes  
> spring  
> from inside me._


	10. your hiddenness is home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy smokes guys we could not be more blown away by how much support u guys give us like h o n e s t l y. we hope u enjoy this chapter!!!!!! 
> 
> (else lasker-schüler, inward, into the light)

It is hours before dawnbreak when he is stirred from his sleep from a dry throat. The glass of water he set down before bed is almost knocked over when he reaches for it clumsily, and he places the empty glass back down gently; careful of limiting the noise he makes to spare the other in his bed. The pillow is such a blissful comfort, he thinks as he settles his head over it and he stretches his arm behind him only to find an empty space and cold sheets.

It takes him a moment in his stupor to register it. He feels the sheets around him, searching for phone to check the time and that’s missing too. Grumbling, he pushes the sheets off him knowing Chris would call or text or whatever else under the sun if he didn’t respond to her messages, even if he did call her on his way home to avoid further interruptions. Blinking away the sleep, he gets out of bed and fumbles around his strewn clothes in search for the when he realizes the bathroom light isn’t on either.  Her clothes are still set aside neatly over the chair, so she hasn’t left. He battles between getting back into bed or searching for her and the phone - and decides on the latter, wanting to avoid an empty battery come morning and search party looking for him.

Rubbing his eyes, he grabs what he thinks is a bathrobe, but it fits a little tighter than that. It doesn’t matter. His footsteps are silent out of a different habit, stepping out into the living area. The lowlights under the cabinets are illuminating dimly for those half-asleep, but at the brink of calling for her attention, he realizes she’s engrossed in something, hunching over the kitchen counter, that she doesn’t even notice him come closer.

“Riza,” he calls out, fingers fumbling over the buttons of what he can recognise not as his bathrobe, but a cardigan. She jumps and the plastic of the phone clatters noisily on the counter. She releases a high-pitched noise like she’s been frightened.

Or caught.

Immediately, he tries to shake off the gut-sinking feeling; the familiarity of it is nostalgic in a way he’d rather not welcome, but she’s looking at him wide-eyed, blinking like a deer in the headlights. He can’t trust it though, his own intuition, when he’s still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looks at the lit screen and the pieces fall into place. The notification bar is dropped down with previews of messages sitting on the screen. His eyes move from it back to her. “What were you doing with my phone?”

Hand on her chest, she swallows trying to catch her breath. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Roy bites the inside of his cheek and wills himself to wait, rather than to demand for her to answer. This isn’t class, it isn’t a space whether either of them has more power than the other. The klaxons aren’t sounding _quite_ yet but as the silence drags on he’s finding it harder to remain level-headed.

She hands him the phone. “Someone’s been trying to get a hold of you. Blowing up your phone every five seconds while I was out here going to get water.”

He takes the device from her. “Did I leave it out here?” he asks as casually as he can manage, but her eyes narrows slightly, quick to pick up what he _might_ be implying.

Her head turns back to the counter, gesturing. “I left mine out here too.”

Finally, Roy wakes his phone and there are numerous messages, all from the same person. His body tenses at the same time that it goes cold. A sigh goes through him when he decides to take her at her word. Scrolling and skimming through, he thinks he simply can’t be free of _her_ today.

He glances towards Riza whose expression is far from readable. She isn’t looking at him, but she is waiting. Any suspicion tapers from her natural nonchalance, her body language telling him that she’s done nothing wrong. But he can’t decipher more than that. The only time he knows what she’s really thinking is when they’re fumbling in between the sheets and only then does her face betray her. He clutches his phone from that thought and sets it back on the counter still on.

“An ex,” he explains, though she hasn’t asked him outright. “With far too much time on her hands. And liquor, judging by the horribly butchered messages.” He pushes the phone to rest in the space between them, a tentative peace offering. He doesn’t want to linger on why he feels the need to explain himself to her.

Riza takes the invitation to look with her arms wrapped around herself, and does so briefly. A ghost of a smirk lifts in the corner of her lip. “Axe?”

He smiles unbidden and stares down as the phone dims. “From what an axe wound she is.”

Her eyes try not to look down to his torso, but she sneaks in a glance when the glass cup goes in the sink. He’s about to tell her that Axe wasn’t the cause of his scar but she pivots herself _and_ the course of the entire conversation. “Papi?”

“It’s…” An embarrassed chuckle leaves him as he finds himself going red. “Pet names,” he answers simply.

Riza looks down to the floor thoughtfully. “I’m not too well-versed in Spanish, but “papa” is “dad” and “papito” is-”

“It’s a contextual language.” He looks away, grinning despite his own chagrin.

“But, of course.” She’s smiling as she says it with teasing undertones, but that’s something he likes so much about her that he can’t stop staring.

He shrugs lightly. “Judge me all you want.”

“Have full confidence that I intend to do that.”

He doesn’t respond, but they’re still standing there, meaning there’s something keeping her here, as if she’s not sure. He doesn’t know, something about her is still guarded and part of him wants to reassure her with a million kisses, but he knows his place and how the undefined protects them. “Do you have any previous significant others that come back to haunt you like this?”

Riza snorts. “No. The last time I had someone give me this much attention was in kindergarten. I haven’t spoken to him in over fifteen years, but you never know.”

“I find it difficult to believe that the last jilted lover from your past comes from kindergarten. There must’ve been others.”

“If you must know, I was in an all-girls boarding school. Not a lot of chances to kiss boys there, but lovers? _Ha,”_ she says and sounds so jaded, like she’s known a deep disappointment. For some reason, she looks away, rubbing an arm. “Hook-ups, sure, but find me a twenty-year old with the emotional maturity capable of love.”

He’d rather not, if he’s honest, but Roy smiles at her distantly. Out of nowhere, he scratches a metaphorical itch and asks, “Have you ever been in love?”

“No,” she answers simply and her eyes return to him slowly, but he can’t find any other meaning in them even as they catch the lowlight. “I can’t say that I have.”  

He nods silently and is about to push off from the counter when she continues abruptly.

“What about you?” She sounds like she wasn’t finished with the conversation, so he looks back at her. She nods her head, gesturing his phone. Her lips purse slightly, fleetingly. “Were you in love with her?”

He lingers on that curious expression that surfaced longer than he should have, mouth slightly parted from it. His eyebrows rise to snap out of it and responds, “I _was._ At one point. In the end we wanted different things.”

Riza relaxes and uncrosses her arms, even though she says, “I don’t know, it’s painfully clear _what_ and _who_ she wants.”

In response to her tease, he confesses in no uncertain terms, “But I don’t want her.” And it’s like the words get stuck in her throat because her mouth is open, ready to speak, then she closes it, swiping the bangs from her face.

Roy doesn’t know where this heavy atmosphere originated from or how it came about so quickly. He can guess it’s in the bite in her lip just now or this prolonged silence. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at her, because there are occasions where he lets his heart rest on his sleeve or maybe it’s because he’s said the right thing in the right tone with the right inflection, but for what end goal? Mentally, he refuses to name it, but he knows it’s there, lingering in the spaces between his words.

Slowly, her lips curl into a smile which prompts him to do the same. He’s urged to pull her into a kiss for one reason or another and he just _knows_ it would feel different than all other kisses they’ve shared. It wouldn’t be born out of the undercurrents of sexual tension that usually existed between them. It would feel more...intimate. A different kind of confession, really.

Riza looks away from him, still smiling, then she walks past him, patting his arm casually. “I’m going back to bed.”

He stays there, watching the notification light blink for a few moments longer, before he follows her.

In the morning, he returns from the pharmacy with an unconventional haul of breakfast and two different contraceptives, deciding to spare her from the looks of judgemental cashiers, _because who needs two kinds of birth control, you dog?_ Better safe than sorry. Out of them both, he knows he should be the responsible one, or at the very least as responsible anyone can be in this irresponsible situation. It was his mistake.

The apartment is still after he settles the bags on the counter and he figures she’s still in bed. As he switches on the coffee maker, Roy stares at the buttons of the lit up machine, narrowing his eyes from the sobering realization of his other _mistakes_ . Well, they’re mistakes if he wants them to be, but they really should be, because he keeps _forgetting_ and last night could have been a colossal fuck-up at any given moment on top of the monumental shit pile it already is.

The spare key, having her here when he’s not, sleeping here - he’s let his guard down so quickly. He tries to think of an excuse and the feeling of running away comes flooding back, but the anxiety isn’t satisfied by that this time. He never should’ve asked her to stay. He needs to rectify that now.

The room is filled with natural sunlight when he enters his bedroom and she’s still sleeping, lightly snoring underneath the covers. Roy quietly pads to her side of the bed; the thought of loudly waking her never goes into consideration. He sees her hair splayed out like a golden halo over the pillow and follows it to her face. He pauses. No, in actuality, _he_ is paused: by the way the sunlight glows on her face, by the peace she knows when she’s sleeping, by the own catch of his breath.

_She’s beautiful_ , a thought intrusively comes to the forefront.

A few moments later, he finds himself outside of the bedroom, banging his head softly on cabinet doors.

When he re-enters, he holds a glass of water, ibuprofen in case of any hangover, and the emergency contraceptive. Roy sets the glass down on the nightstand of her side and gently nudges her, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Riza groans softly, stretching as she blinks in the light. He can’t help the small smile that forms over his lips and she smiles back. “Good morning,” she says sleepily.

“Good morning,” he says back. He hands her the medicine and she looks at the capsule, confused. “I went to pharmacy already and breakfast is on the counter.”

She raises her eyebrows, depositing the pills in her mouth and reaching over for the water. “Bedside service, is this going to be a usual thing?”

He pushes himself up and says the first thing that comes to mind that’ll ruin this moment, “Only when you let me go bareback.”

Where others would be annoyed, she’s amused, spitting out her water and chuckling from it. He smiles, because of course he’s not in any trouble.

The conversation of the night before opens a different ease with her. The days go by without him realizing that he’s getting too comfortable around her presence. He’s slipping further down into something without any real means of getting himself out. The feelings are shelved as he welcomes the break from university classes, but he realizes how behind he really is on a deadline due in the middle of the week. Before he knows it, the weekend has passed him by and they’ve barely had more than to do than just eat and read and review.

She tidies around around when she gets bored and something twists inside him, wanting her to stop. The thought resurfaces that he should send her home, because that’d be the right thing to do, but he’s selfish and doesn’t want to because he loves her...company. He also rationalizes she’s staying because she doesn’t want to go back to her own place while her roommates are away. Roy doesn’t blame her - it’s one thing to live alone, but when you’re used to the sounds of flatmates it can be disconcerting to suddenly be without.

The tension of the deadline culminates Tuesday, the evening before it’s due. He’s hardly said anything to her all day besides a few grunts and mumbling until he finally sends her to go find some takeout for dinner to give him a chance to sneak onto his small balcony that overlooks a part of East City. The cigarette he lights has been tucked away for months but it catches fire quickly enough. The smoke burns pleasantly in his lungs and the nicotine gives him that immediate gratification he yearns for before he exhales. Unwisely, perhaps, he checks his messages on his phone.

_14 new messages._

His expressions sours and he exits the app, breathing in a long drag of the cigarette.

“Taking a break?”

He snorts at her standing against the threshold. “Something like that.” He flicks the filtered end of the cigarette with his thumb and the ashes fall on the tray next to him. “You came back quick,” he notes as he brings it to his mouth again.

“I bought ingredients instead of takeout,” she says simply and leans against the doorframe with crossed arms. Curious, not accusatory, she points out: “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I usually don’t, but it takes the edge off when it comes to stress. And ingredients for what?”

“To cook.”

“You can cook?” He doesn’t mean to sound so incredulous, but he didn’t know many peers at her age who could successfully put together a dish. Then again, his own worldview was a little skewed from his own upbringing, and that’s when it hit him: if her apartment was emptied, why not go to her parents? There’s so little he knew about her that he didn’t let himself ask, didn’t stop to even consider.

“I can and I won’t charge you this time. It’ll keep me busy in between things you want me to do.”

He smiles, something he’s been catching himself doing a lot of lately, as he puts out the burning end of the cigarette. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re being awfully nice to me.”

“I’ll never let you see the light of day if you tell anyone.”

“Dry as ever, Miss Hawkeye. But it’s a tempting offer.”

She ends up making a kind of chicken pasta dish with cream - admitting that she never really bothered with recipes, just kept trying with ingredients until she had figured something out.

“You don’t use recipes?” Roy finds that a little hard to believe. “Do you just throw things together and hope they taste good?”

Riza shrugs as she adds a little more cream to the saucepan, and stirs. “I mean, if I’m baking a cake or something I’ll find one because baking is literally a science unto itself. With cooking there’s a lot more leeway.” She takes a sip of wine and leans against the pantry door, watching him. “Does that frighten the scientist in you?”

He snorts into his wine glass and shakes his head. “No. I’m more interested in how long it took for you to become a master cook.”

Riza turns back to the saucepan. “I had to grow up quick,” she says briskly. He knows that there is a story buried in those words, but it’s clear it is not one she’s comfortable sharing with him just yet. He fiddles with the stem of the wine glass, and mentally shelves that topic into the box marked ‘Riza’ in his head.

Late on Tuesday night, Roy meets the deadline with about as much fanfare as can be expected with the sending of an single email update to his editor. His research was coming along fine, but it had been some kind of cruel irony that he didn’t even have the energy to do much beyond drag himself to bed night after long night of going over literature that he wouldn’t normally touch with a ten-foot pole. Roy enjoys academia and the relative freedom along with it, but the theory could never even _begin_ to compete with the experiments he used to be involved with. Sure, he theorizing was still part of the process even then - he wasn’t a complete heathen - but there was something satisfying about getting to _prove_ his ideas right. He didn’t work well with abstracts, with “maybe” or “possibly” or “down the line”, with the knowledge that some parts would forever remain unknown to him.

There is also something satisfying about walking into his bedroom and seeing seeing her already in the bed, asleep. Even if he feels too exhausted to do anything but crawl into bed and draw her close to his chest, it’s quickly becoming one of those simple pleasures Maes was always yammering about. Her faint perfume is more than enough to relax him, making him smile drowsily, and send him quickly to sleep.

* * *

The morning after his deadline he wakes much later than usual, and he’s unsurprised when he shifts and finds only cool sheets between his arms. He dozes there for a while, trying to listen for any familiar sounds, but the warmth of the bed and the exhaustion he still feels drags him back down, and he drifts off once more.

The second time he wakes, he makes sure to roll over and grab his phone - _11:08am_ glares back at him, and he grumbles as he forces himself out of bed. He shuffles towards the bathroom, and hopes that a shower will wake him up, even at least a little bit. His eyes are beginning to feel the strain of the long nights of pouring over drier academia than the Sahara, and as he steps into the bathroom, he wonders if he can just crawl back into bed after this. Riza would understand: long nights and procrastination were probably second nature to her by this point.

He spends too much time just standing in the shower and possibly dozing again, but at least when he exits the bathroom the change in temperature makes him feel somewhat more ready to face the day. He rubs at his face roughly, brushing away the sleep still stuck in his eyelashes. Tonight they’d be ordering in; he was craving stuffed crust pizza and he damn well deserved a quality pepperoni special.

He wanders down towards the kitchen, adjusting the towel wrapped low around his hips. Riza is curled up on the couch, and she flashes him a quick smile, picking up her mug in salutation. “Feel better?”

He gives her a noncommittal grunt and makes a beeline for the fridge, grabbing the leftover stir fry she had made last night and digs into it with gusto. She really was a great cook, despite her protests that it was nothing special. At her age he could barely put together a meal like this, and she did it all without referring back to instructions.

“Yeah,” he says finally, after a few minutes, putting the now-empty bowl and fork into the sink. “I’m sure my editor will tear it to shreds but that’s par for the course in academia.”

Riza nods, humming in thought. “When do you need to have the final draft completed by?”

He opens his mouth to answer, and then shuts it again, shaking his head with a bemused expression. “I wasn’t aware you were going to be my live-in assistant. Do I not deserve a break?”

She grins, and it’s like her whole body suddenly relaxes, comfortable in this familiar territory of playful banter. He too, feels it, in spite of the cool morning, feels her eyes _on_ him, decidedly further south than where his own are. The towel is low enough that he knows the scar is poking over the top, but in his gut he knows that she doesn’t _see_ it in the way that others have, and will continue to do. There is no fleeting pity, no pull of the eyebrows as she acknowledges its existence - no, Riza Hawkeye is instead focused on something else entirely. She rises from the couch and walks towards him with purpose, the skirt of her dress pulled up by the oversized sweater she wears on top.

“Of course you do,” she tells him, clasping her hands behind her and stopping before him. “And I need to go back home to grab some stuff anyway-”

“Like what?”

Riza gestures to her outfit. “I can’t keep resorting to stealing your clothes. I might be a poor student but I’m not desperate.”

A slow grin grows on his face as he realises _whose_ sweater that she’s wearing actually belongs to. If he didn’t know her better, he’d accuse her of deliberately going out of her way to seduce him with cheap tricks that _definitely_ go straight to his dick. “I don’t know,” he replies thoughtfully, moving closer to her, fingers slipping under the hem of the dress, stroking the skin of her thighs lightly, “‘desperate’ is a good look on you.” His voice has taken on that low, soft quality that he knows she enjoys so much - and it takes a lot of willpower for him not to cling when she pulls back, smiling apologetically, instead of picking her up and taking her back to the bedroom. Generally their interactions were always laced with the undertones of sexual agency: this was easily the longest they had existed within each other’s spaces without ending up in bed together, and if he was perfectly honest with himself, that was...peturbing.

“I’ll be back soon,” she explains, her smile sly and promising.

He nods slowly, before frowning. “Why didn’t you just go sooner? The front door works both ways, you know.”

Her cheeks tinge a little, realizing that he’s right. She stammers slightly, “It didn’t come to mind.”

He chews over what that means for longer than he intends to: she’s still waiting there, awkwardly hovering for him to respond. “Then let me drive you as repayment for your noble sacrifice,” he tells her, flashing her a warm smile as he makes his way back down the hall towards the bedroom.

“It’s really not a big deal…” she answers, hesitating in the doorway. “And you’ve been running yourself ragged these last few days - I don’t need a lot, just a backpack and my laptop.”

He shakes his head as he shimmies on a pair of jeans and an old t-shirt. “The deadline has been met, and my editor is as pleased as he’s ever going to be. Please, let me see outside these walls. I think I’ve forgotten what the colour green looks like.” He grabs a cap to go over his hair and sunglasses to go over his face. “There, no one will recognize me now.”

She laughs and gives in. “Fine! Lead the way, chauffeur.”

* * *

The closer they get to her apartment, the tenser her body gets. She’s fidgeting with her fingers with thoughtful state out the window, biting her lower lip every so often. Though it isn’t a long ride, there is a need for a merciful distraction so he pushes the button that turns the radio on his console with conviction.

Unfortunately, he forgets himself and his tendency to sometimes listen to music in his car at full volume. The car swerves slightly from his wincing from the sudden blast of sound and she’s yanked off from her thoughts. He says a meek apology, though he wants to laugh because she’s staring at him incredulously.

“Is this how you normally listen to music?”

He smirks a little. “Maybe.”

“Are you trying to go deaf?” She shakes her head and turns the knob to listen. “What does Roy Mustang listen to?”

He leans on the driver side door and scratches underneath the cap. “Why don’t you find out?” He’s slightly grateful seeing that her complex is the next turn. It’s some merengue-pop mix song, he hasn’t heard of, edited for radio, but she’s turning her head and narrowing her eyes, trying to make sense of the music that isn’t in her language in a genre that she’s probably never heard of before.

The engine shuts off and he opens the door to quiet the car. “Isn’t it the best thing you’ve ever heard?” he asks her sarcastically.

She gets out of the vehicle and from the looks of it, she’s trying to be nice about what she has to say. It only makes it him smile. She begins to nod, fishing out her keys, as she sympathetically says “It has a nice melody to it, I can see the appeal.”

Roy leans on the threshold, well aware of the shit-eating grin on his face. “I’ve never heard that song before.”

That earns him a glare as she continues digging in her seemingly endless bag, which is amazing given how tiny it is.

“Besides you don’t listen with your ears. You measure it with your hips.”

Without looking up, she mutters, “What the hell does that mean?”

He perks, a little stunned and a little perplexed. “Like dancing.”

She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t look at him, still focused on the mysteries of her keys in her _absurdly_ small bag. “You dance?”

“You can’t?” Roy shoots back.

She gives him a look that he cannot translate as anything but _does it look like I know how to dance?_ as she unlocks the door. Riza lets him before her and he’s relieved to hear that it’s still empty.

“I’ll be quick,” she says simply, unknowingly awkward.

He takes off the cap and sunglasses and sets them down on a nearby surface, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “What, not even a tour? What a gracious hostess you are.”

She stops and pivots back. “We had the wine cellar removed last month, so there’s not much to show.”

Roy pauses, momentarily confused before he realises she is joking. “It scares me a little that you say that with such conviction that I actually believe you for about five seconds.”

She laughs then, properly and loudly, her hand raising to partially cover her mouth. “I’ll remember that the next time I need to bullshit for one of your assignments,” she teases, winking.

She gestures grandly from where they stand in front of the door, but her explanation is anything but. “That small alleyway there is the kitchen. Down the hall is Olivier’s room, here’s the living room. The one bathroom is over there and on this side is Rebecca’s room and then my room next to it.”

“Quaint,” he comments. “So, you really can’t dance?”

She breathes in and out audibly to dismiss his query. “I’m going to get what I need,” she says pointedly.

He snatches her wrist and she looks at the hand over it, then his face; he’s holding a finger up. “Hold on a minute.” He had stretched to catch her hand so he straightens. “Are you nervous about having me here?”

“No,” she lies and that knowing look resurfaces from him. “There isn’t a rational reason for me to be. The complex is nearly emptied and I doubt anyone could have recognized you.” She shrugs slightly. “I suppose the entire situation hits home, so to speak.... With you here.”

He lets her hand go. “Would you rather me go? Because I have no-”

“No!” Riza interjects quickly, almost desperate to avoid communicating the wrong thing, and calmer this time, she repeats: “No. And to answer your question: it’s not that I can’t dance; I wasn’t given an opportunity to learn.”

He smiles tenderly and offers, “Would you like me to show you?”

“...Why?”

“It’s fun.” He shrugs. “Something different than academia or whatever else has been going on in the last few days.”

“I don’t -” she relaxes her shoulders, huffing. “All right, fine. Show me.”

He digs out his phone from his pocket. While he’s searching through his phone for what would be best suited for a beginner, he says, “We’ll start simple and _Bachata_ is probably the easiest one to learn. It’s finding the rhythm in your hips and moving them to it. Three-steps to the right, three steps to the left. Repeat. It’s simple.” It isn’t thought, it can get more complicated than that, but he’ll spare her the intricacies.She watches him saunter side to side as an example while still fixed on his screen and covers her mouth to stifle a giggle.

“Simple enough, it seems.” He sets the phone down on the end table and takes her hand, leading her to the middle of the living room. He’s still smiling, and he realises that he’s _proud_ of showing her this and unafraid to show share this side of him. He holds both her hands, her fingers really. He talks her through feet placement when the song picks up and she follows or rather, _tries_ . She’s too busy counting the paces, inattentive to the tempo or melody of the song. She’s off-beat and looks clunky and weird and _endearing_. She looks at him and he’s looking at her, swinging their hands to the song.

“Having trouble?”

Riza frowns, “A bit.”

“You’re too busy looking at the technical aspect of it.” He lets go. “Counting, am I right?”

“Possibly.”

Roy circles around her, behind her, and his hands fall on her hips. “Feel it _here._ With each step.” He applies pressure to her left hip to nudge it forward and step, then the other side to create a mini-sway back, as if creating momentum for each step in that direction until he guides her in the opposite direction.

With his breath hitting her neck.

“Does that make more sense?”

“A little. It’d be better if I knew what was being said,” she quips, not unkindly.

He twirls her around unexpectedly, leaving on hand on her waist and grabbing her hand. “The song title translates to ‘Indecent Proposal’, if you’re so curious.”

“How fitting.”

“It talks about this man being so attracted to this woman, he asks her if she’s ever misbehaved. That an adventure is more thrilling if it’s a little dangerous. He asks her if she’d let herself be seduced. If she thought it’d be prudent - this indecent proposal.”

She kisses him then. It doesn’t feel like she’s trying shut him up - well, maybe she was, but in any case it was certainly the _best_ way to achieve that end - her lips are warm against his own, hips moving of their own accord, still a little uncertain, but with more conviction than before. She draws him close, allowing her body to relax and mold to his. When he moves, so does she: and he lets himself be distracted by the curve of her lips and the curves under his hands, lets himself be brought to her as a supplicant on his knees, begging for more. The music guides them, guides her - and as it swells, so does she, rising onto the tips of her toes and sliding her arms around his neck, pulling him close.

Her breath is sweet and he wills himself not to groan as she gyrates her hips, growing bolder with every passing second. She draws back slightly, bright eyes darting between his. She’s flushed pink, a furtive smile tugging at her lips, an even pinker tongue poking out to wet her lips.

How did he ever think he stood a chance against her, against this image? Even in his wildest and most vivid dreams, he could never conjure something like this: he could never get the exact texture and shade of her lips right, bright with blood flow and delicate bites, he could never recreate the _exact_ way her chest heaves as she struggles to catch her breath.

Perhaps he stares at her for a bit too long, because he’s pushed back to the couch and she crawls onto him, and kisses him again fiercely. Her hands cup his face, fingers push back his hair. It feels _wonderful_ , and that feeling only intensifies as she rests herself fully on his lap, hips shifting against his own. His hands automatically rest on her hips, and he barely has his fingers under the fabric before her hands leave him and cross over herself. The sweater is discarded and she makes quick work on the myriad of buttons on her front. Easily, he catches her fingers and kisses them softly, before continuing the work himself. Riza shrugs out of the sleeves with practiced ease, and groans as his head dips towards her chest. He kisses the flat expanse of her sternum, pulling the fabric of her cups to the side.

He is not kind about his kisses here, nor is he kind about the bites that follow. She brings out the worst in him sometimes, the perverse part of him that likes to see how she struggles and reacts against him. He loves _pushing_ her, loves seeing how she reacts to new sensations. This time is no different. She shivers against him as he draws a nipple into his mouth, squeals as he nips at the sensitive bud. The other gets the same, albeit softer treatment from his fingers: he rolls it between his fingers and pinches when she seems to be getting too comfortable. Her fingers grip at his hair tightly, almost painfully when he sucks hard - hard enough, he knows, to bruise.

Her hips are insistent against his own, rubbing over the same spot that is already uncomfortably tight - he doesn’t know whether the constant pressure is better than a lack of it - and even he finds himself groaning with her, hips thrusting upwards. Her fingers are trailing all over him, like miniature brands that leave trails of heat in their wake as they work their way down his body.

He thinks he hears a _click_ nearby, but then Riza is kissing him again, her hips working in tandem with the music still playing from his phone. He’s too preoccupied for any thoughts beyond how soft her lips are, and how warm she feels under his hands.

The both of them are too engrossed in one another to notice the newcomer crossing the threshold, rummaging around in her bag. “The fuck is that noise Riza-” she calls out, stopping at the same time that Riza looks up, and shrieks.

She twists violently in his lap, limbs digging into him as she tries to re-button her dress and move off him at the same time; he’s left winded and with a growing sense of terror gnawing away in his gut.

“Olivier - I- I didn’t realise-”

Roy, unwisely, turns his head to look at them both: Riza is still struggling to do even half of the buttons, and her flatmate’s gaze lands squarely on him, a frown digging deep into her eyebrows. Her mouth parts slightly.

“I know you,” the blonde girl says slowly, still frowning, eyes flicking to Riza who has gone very still, and very pale.

“You’re-”

_“Olivier-”_ Riza pleads.

“From the campus handbook-”

_“Please-”_

_“_ **_Professor._ ** _”_ Olivier spits the word out darkly, her face tensing. Roy rises from the couch, brain scrambling for a response that is coherent, sound: the blood is rushing through his ears and his heart is salsaing in double time. Riza has lost all colour and she’s more distraught than he’s ever seen her.

The moment stretches on and he feels like the world’s biggest asshole when he sighs and shakes his head, scooping up his keys and his phone, pressing pause. The silence afterwards is deafening.  “I think I’m going to go.”

“I think that’s best,” Olivier snaps in her stead and they extend glances until he switches to Riza and she gives a short nod, not betraying anything else. Her arms are tightly curled around herself, and she pulls away from him when he walks past.

The door shuts behind him loudly, and he runs shaky hands through his hair, blinking rapidly in the cool air.

* * *

Olivier is pacing in front of the couch - back and forth, back and forth - with anger creased in her eyebrows. To avoid feeling like a scolded child, Riza sits with her spine ramrod straight, fully dressed now, hands folded over her knees. On the inside, she wants the ground to swallow her whole, wants to sink into the fabric of the couch and become one with the faded fabric.

The last thing she anticipated was Olivier walking in, much less finding out about all of this. Carelessly dumb doesn’t begin to cover it. Anyone else could recognize him by his car, or whatever other features. She was _asking_ for trouble.

Olivier stops abruptly in front of her and she starts slow and tempered, with an emphasis in each clause until it escalates in volume towards the end: “When I said - I don’t care about _who_ you were fucking, that did not extend to _fucking your professor_ . _”_

Riza doesn’t say anything. It was a moment of weakness - the text, not the sex - in search of support for a morally questionable decision which still is and Riza admits that; she should have never gotten her involved in the first place. She lets Olivier say her piece.

Olivier points at the door as if he’s still there. “ _This_ is your big secret? The one you’ve been keeping from Rebecca? She thinks you’re going off with some mystery frat boy and she won’t shut the fuck up about it.”

There _is_ a prickle of guilt for keeping it from Rebecca.

“Hey,” Olivier beckons, prompting Riza to look up. “Is that grade worth it? What was it, for _Chem Lit?_ Too good to study like the rest of us? _”_

Her eyes narrow on the cold ones looking down on her. Her mouth is shaped into a hard frown now. It’s a low blow, even for her. Her frigid roommate is notoriously ruthless, but Riza would hope she knows her better than that."I'm not fucking him for a grade, Olivier."

“You’re fucking him for _something_ . _Think_ , Riza.” She pokes at her own temple. “This happens all the fucking time. Sleazy professors preying on students stupid enough to take the bait, thinking they are getting ahead.”

Unwilling to be chastised any longer, Riza stands up with fists tightly wound as her jaw is clenched, “Don’t think I’m fooling myself here, assuming I don’t know this is as bad as it looks, because I _do_ . And I don’t need _you_ to repeat it back to me. I’m capable of looking after myself. I made my choices, all right? This is different.”    
  
Her full lips quirk subtly, frustratingly, to accompany the smug look on her face. Her shoulders begin to quake from the chuckle she’s holding back, mocking her, and she continues with a tone of fake sympathy. “Right, yes, of course, _of course._ This fucking creep of a man is _different_ , he _understands you_ , he buys you nice shit because of _course_ he fucking looked up your file and he knows you’re on a scholarship, that you have next to no money, and he’s _promised_ to write you a letter of recommendation for next year’s intake if you’ll just suck his dick.”

Riza feels the heat of her cheeks like they’ve been slapped, hard, across her face. She has a protest ready but it dies in her throat when Olivier goes on.  

“Didn’t you recently get a new work-study position? Did he get you that? Do you not _see_ that you’re literally exchanging favors for sex here?”

Riza’s throat tightens and she tries to swallow, rooted in the floor where she stood. Her voice comes out meager, “It isn’t like that…”

“He suckered you into a contract to work with him, to keep you around at all times, and you don’t even think to leave because it’s _different_ or _it’s not like that_ . Bullshit. What happened to the last person in this position? Or was that not brought up because the interview process was less verbal and more physical? _”_

“Enough!” Riza yells over the tail-end of her last accusation. She has no doubt her eyes are glistening, judging by the way they burn. It’s hurtful and heavy in her chest, sinking with the weight of a metric tonne.

An emotion has finally settled on Olivier’s face and Riza recognises it with dawning horror: _pity._ “Oh. Don’t tell me you think you have _feelings_ him. Or, _worse_ \- do you think he loves you?” She says, but it’s more like she’s spitting out the words, taking a step back and shaking her head disapprovingly. “I would’ve expected something so self-destructive and _reckless_ from Rebecca, but not you. I can’t believe you’d throw away your scholarship for some dick.”

“Are you done?" she asks with a trembling lip. Riza doesn’t wait for an answer as she begins gather her things - and his sweater that she had been wearing. “Must be nice looking down from your high horse.”

"Don’t be such a brat. He’s _your_ professor, who has the power to fuck up your _entire career_ -"

"Then pretend you didn't see him and give another two months and the problem will be over,” she sneers.

"You're going to _continue_ seeing him?” Olivier is livid, her face turning a curious shade of pink, her full lips thinning dramatically. It would almost be hilarious to Riza if she wasn’t in the firing line.

“It isn’t anyone’s business but my own,” Riza replies stubbornly.

“You’re making it my business by bringing him _here_ \- where I live. Or have you forgotten? If you get caught - and I guarantee you will - talk will get back to me. You’re not fucking up _my_ degree along with yours. _Think!_ As soon as he finds out about your dad you know he _will_ run.”

_“Don’t-”_

“You said so yourself - he just _sits_ there and won’t even talk to his _only daughter_ , but yeah, Professor Magic Dick is gonna be the _daddy_ you never had.”

There it is, her tipping point. Riza spins on her heel away from her flatmate. By this point she’s beyond consoling, beyond rational words. She’s _insulted_ , angry and embarrassed. She doesn’t have the patience to tolerate Olivier’s sanctimonious attitude any longer. Family is _off-limits_. She wants to insult her own family? Fine, but that doesn’t warrant a reason to drag what family Riza has.

“Riza-”

_“Fuck you.”_ Riza pours every inch of hatred she feels into the words, her hands clenched painfully. “I’m _done_ listening. Tell your father to hire someone to bear your insults.”

Riza storms down the hallway, roughly wiping at her face to stop the tears she can feels forming - they’re painful ones, prickling harshly at the corners of her eyes. She doesn’t have to listen to this, be belittled and condescended to: she’s an _adult_ , for fuck’s sake - her choices were her own, and the consequences too. She hears Olivier follow her, can only imagine the sharp words being primed to cut her down further. Riza twists her head back to look at her flatmate through her tears, and manages one last scathing retort before she slams her bedroom door behind her:

_"Nothing_ in my life has ever been ideal Olivier. I'll take what little happiness I can get."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I keep my death in mind.  
>  None loves me._
> 
> _I should be an image peaceful  
>  on the altar, bad fire quenched._
> 
> _But this dreamy sunset tinges me  
>  red-raw with tears._
> 
> _And who knows where to turn  
>  when everywhere it’s you._
> 
> _To me your hiddenness is home,  
>  and I want nothing more._
> 
> _How gladly I would bloom  
>  into the blue sky at your heart._
> 
> _I lay my open paths at ease  
>  around your throbbing house._


	11. you want to wreck the foxgloves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys we love u all so much. we love all the comments u leave. we're so so so so so grateful.
> 
> ana composed a song for this fic which u can listen to **[here](http://tsaritsa.tumblr.com/post/173223814404/for-capthawkeye-the-other-half-of-myself-the)**. she'd love to know ur thoughts!
> 
> (emily o’neill, your boy came by)

Time isn’t relative or relevant or both; in that moment, it fails to exist, and she fades into whatever state her senses tell her too. She’d like nothing else.

The movement of his hips surprises her the most, pleases her the best. He’s slow and rhythmic, unhurried. She knows that _he_ knows what he’s doing. After all, everything that he does is calculated and measured.

The bed doesn’t even protest.

His touch is gentle, but the kisses to her naked skin are sweeter, and the temperature of her body steadily rises with the thrum of her heart from the steady sway -- feeling him over and over and _over_ again. In the curl of her toes, she can feel her peak. She feels it in coil tightly in her abdomen, when she scratches the skin of his back, or tugs the hair on the back his head. It’s beyond just the noises she makes, but she’s bewildered how effortlessly he brings forth an intricate sequence of emotions, sensations, and all the biological components in between, all on her behalf. Riza wraps her arms around his neck to cling on to this moment, tucking it away in someplace safe in her heart. His hands are strategically placed underneath her as if his goals include eliminating any space he finds unnecessary between them.

She doesn’t remember how she entangled herself with him this time. Riza doesn’t think she cares. It’s usually so fervent and sprung, but this tryst felt different, _feels_ different with her legs parted and curled over his hips so she can relish in that leisurely pace.

Roy lifts his head from the crook of her neck and his eyes are as soft as the thumb brushing over her lower lip. He kisses her then. There’s something he wants to say; she tastes it on his lips; in the hesitation in his fingertips, like he’s scared to touch her more than he already is. She knows it because its flavor is familiar on hers too, heavy with implication.

A sudden nightmare takes hold, rolling in like a quick and ominous fog, poisoning her thoughts and tensing her under him. He notices and she curses when his lips leave her.

“Everything will be okay,” he whispers so light and breathless that Riza doesn’t know where the weight and the power behind them comes from, but that comfort, she welcomes it.

She looks at his eyes, so boringly brown at first glance, but she’d be remiss to ignore how dark they truly are, almost black if that were possible. She pushes the strands of hair from his face and searches for something to tip her off, to give her reason to run. She aggravatingly finds none. Or she doesn’t want to while she’s here, with him, in this impossibly endless bed of his - an expansive alternative she prefers to her own bed where her problems can reach her quicker, grab her by the ankles and demand that she face them.

“How can you be sure?” Riza asks and her voice doesn’t feel like hers.  

Roy shifts and his hands slip from underneath to cradle her fingers and he kisses the knuckles gently before setting them near her head. She’s unsure what he’s thinking when she hardly knows what she’s thinking herself, but her eyes flutter to a close when he lowers to her again with that tender smile gracing his lips, even as they are still physically melded together. He brushes back the hair that has clung to her forehead and kisses the skin there too; she feels it reverberate down to her toes.

It baffles her how her own defenses betray her, with the effortless way they go down for him; the unpleasant, tightly wound knot in her stomach unravels, bringing her guard down like he does. It’s even _worse_ now because she is painfully aware of it.

Like it’s the simplest and most obvious thing in the world, Roy says, “Because I want to be with you.”

It wreaks a silent chaos within her. A myriad of alarm bells goes off in her head, each one more insistent and shrill than the last. Riza tries discerning if they’re warning her or if they’re victory bells, but she’d be better off guessing lottery numbers. She blinks in the wake of his forthrightness,unexpected from a man whose academic career revolves around the logical presentation of an evidence-proven epistemology. This declaration is all the more frightening for it. It’s nonsensical, ridiculous. They have nothing, know nothing.

Without any rational supporting data, can they really call themselves scientists when they _both_ feel this way?

Roy lowers in again, after what has felt like years ruminating, and he angles for a proper kiss this time. He reads her mind and asks: “Don’t you want to be with me?”

* * *

Riza wakes up with an uncomfortable warmth, sweat dampening in the crooks of her elbows and knees. To her utter disappointment, the heavenly endless bed and everything with it has disappeared; instead, she’s curled in the cramped, limited space of her value brand mattress. Her eyes feel like trouble, inflamed and swollen and probably will be worse than what she’s already seeing in her mind’s eye. Exhaustion plagues her, despite resting, and she can add mental fogginess to the list. She groans, stuffing her face into the thing she’s got her arms wrapped around.

It’s a quality fabric of medium thickness: his sweater, warm from absorbing and trapping her body heat, She’s clutched close to her chest like some sad excuse for a stuffed animal.

Riza anchors the content of her dream at some far off place in her mind, blocking them even as they come rushing back like a tsunami to the forefront of her mind. She avoids her phone, lost anyway in a jumble of sheets and pillows. She steps into the shower with to clear her mind and reduce some swelling, and only manages to accomplish one.

Under the hot water, she winces recalling the lashes from Olivier’s reproach, wondering if she’s been kidding herself or purposely sweeping it under the rug. There’s an unmistakable tug between her heart that feels and her mind that thinks. A part of Riza knows which she usually gives bias to.

It feels wrong. She is doubting and second guessing when she’s usually so grounded, confident in her own choices. The years after her emancipation had left her with no other choice but to trust her gut for better or for worse. It’s kept her alive so far. But Olivier has a point, this isn’t different. She’s tangling herself into something that would not just affect her own integrity, but his as well, her roommates - maybe even the university, if hers wasn’t an isolated incident.

By something cruel, she’s reminded of the warming, butterfly wings she feels fluttering across her insides, the jolt of excitement prickling her skin when she sees him - what are those emotions, really? Could she confidently assume she has feelings... and that he does too? Something in her mind reminisces the way he held her and spoke to her, as equals far from their roles in the university, but that’s just mature human decency.

She supposes it boils down to what _they_ are; they never gave it a name she realises, something that was done somewhat deliberately. Anything and all he did could’ve been for an ulterior motive. From the coffee to the job to the stay at his place. Riza frowns, unhappy at the weight of her roommate’s words; it’s shaken the foundation and she can’t make heads or tails through the dust anymore.

In front of her mirror, she sees the evidence of their lust as clear as day - places where his mouth marked her skin. There were times before that she’d feel the soreness in her hips and the pressure of his hands on her body, that’s evidence too; even if it’s not visible in the same way that these bruises are, scattered over her chest and décollage like petals.

If they are just fuck buddies, then a few days apart to sort herself out won’t kill them. Riza thinks this as she reaches for her phone. A strange, little disappointment lingers when her notification bar shows nothing beyond generic Facebook updates and an email from the university.

* * *

He messages her that same day, later on when the sun is barely peeking over the craggy tops of the Cremil Ranges, but she doesn’t reply. Well, she _does_ , but it’s not a response that allowed much room for a continuing conversation. Whether he has the clairvoyance to give her space or he’s taking this opportunity not to involve himself, Riza leaves it be. She throws herself in her preparation for other classes, realizing the end of the break is almost upon her and sitting around doing nothing in the beginning of the week was unwise for the amount of work she was supposed to be doing. _Playing housewife essentially_ , she thinks.

For the most part, she avoids Olivier and Olivier avoids her. They still see each other; after all, their rooms are only a living room area apart, barely saying a word when they do. At one point, Riza was working on the kitchen table when Olivier came back home. She doesn’t ask questions where from. Riza thinks she looks mad, but then again, that’s always her face whereas Riza remains expressionless and uninterested. Unworried.

On the last day, the anxiety she’s been able to drown in work resurfaces. It’s been four days without any resolution. Riza can’t say where she expected it from or why she needs it, but the morning of that Sunday, she is overcome with an annoying need to know where she stands.

Riza sighs with a shuddering breath. She stares at the calendar with today’s date circled in marker: her father’s visit is the perfect topping of cherries with sprinkles she needs to add onto the mess she’s made. The overcast clouds worsen her dread. A little bit of sunshine might’ve helped with the gloom, but instead she follows the sheet of gray clouds through the window of her bus seat. There’s so much she’s dreading from so many different pulls when she’s at the brink of unravelling like wool. There’s parts of her that are loose, rattled from the explosive row with Olivier and frayed from overthinking herself - trying to sort herself. She hates feeling this vulnerable and susceptible to the whims of others - certainly not when she’s about to enter a place where she already feels powerless. She takes so many deep breaths to level herself that someone asks if she’s okay. It’s been days since she’s used her voice that it croaks embarrassingly, but that’s the least of her concerns.

When they first brought him here, a younger Riza had expected an ominous building, dilapidated from the years of sheltering people like her father who talked to themselves, yelled at the walls, and ignored what still had life. They have several names for it now, but back when she heard the word “asylum”, she couldn’t help the expectation developing on its own. She couldn’t say what brought her back or what keeps bringing her back after the accident. Even when kids - teenagers, but really _young adults_ \- caught wind and finished what her father started by teaching her the meaning of “undue cruelty”, she’d settle on a Saturday or Sunday before or after work of her second or third minimum wage job.  At first, it was the yearning for some normalcy from her only living relative, hoping for a miracle. Here, her problems would seem as black-and-white as they could possibly be; a chance to gain some perspective. Some days, she’d lie to herself and say her life is easy compared to the kinds lived in these walls.

Now, at the very least, the psychiatric facility gives Riza some measure of clarity that she couldn’t find in the house when she arrives with meager expectations, if at all. University has spaced her visits to ever two to three months. But it may have been longer.

At the reception desk, the pen scratches on paper with her name as Riza nods distractedly to the safety procedures and rules of conduct she’s heard time and time again. There’s always a pause when she goes to write her name on the tag. _Riza Hawkeye_. Her claim to the name was....lacking at best, and the only person who could possibly give her insight into the choices that went into those four letters was sadly beyond that kind of inane explanation today.

“Any sharp objects on your person today?”

Riza holds up a stack of papers. “Do potential paper cuts count?”

The nurse appreciates the small joke and shakes her head. “No staples?”

She flashes a weary smile at the nurse, nodding. “No staples,” she promises, handing over her bag to the receptionist.

“He hasn’t had the best week,” the woman tells her as they make their way down towards the Jane Thickey Ward. “Very uncooperative. Perhaps your visit will change his mood.”

Her heart sinks and she chews on the corner of her lip. “Historically speaking, I can’t say I expect much.”

The mousy woman snorts as they turn down another corridor, stopping at the first metal detector. “It’s no wonder you’re related with that attitude. But I’m sure he’ll appreciate the literature you’ve brought all the same. He treats it all with such care.”

 _Is it really that surprising?_ Riza wants to say, but she swallows her resentment as they walk through the final metal detector. She spies him in the corner by the fireplace and here’s no indication that he’s heard her arrival - not even as she mutters a quiet thanks to the nurse and slowly makes her way over to the spot that he’s claimed as his own. The other residents shamble around in threadbare slippers like ghosts, but Berthold Hawkeye sticks out like a sore thumb in his suit, faded from the years but still hinting at what once was a man in his prime.

The current reality is a lot more sobering, in a place where even staples are considered a hazard.

“Hello Father,” Riza says gently, politely - in the refined manner he’s shown her how. She arranges herself carefully in the chair angled towards him, gripping the papers tightly. “I’m sorry I haven’t been to visit - university has been very busy.”

Berthold inclines his head towards her slightly, the only indication she’s used to getting that he’s paying any sliver of attention to her. Riza takes a moment to remember to breathe, and that she doesn’t need to worry about mulling over her words here. It will not matter whether she takes a moment or a millennium to say her piece - her father will still be sitting there, still, unmoving, unresponsive as he ever was. He is still frightfully pale even in the light flickering from the fireplace, the lines of his face drawn and dug deep. Ten years ago she might have found some similarities between them, at least physically, but the man before her now is as much a stranger as his reasoning would ever be.

“I’ve been accepted into the third-year program. This year is a lot more theory than practical experiments - but that’s probably for the best, you did always tell me I liked to play with fire.” The laughter that bubbles out of her is more hysterical than self-deprecating, and she can feel the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. The reality of this whole situation was truly beginning to dawn on her, Olivier’s words drumming into her skull over and over again.

 _As soon as he finds out about your dad you know he_ **_will_ ** _run._

She didn’t want to admit it in the heat of the moment - didn’t want to hear any _shred_ of truth, if she was being perfectly honest, but there was a very real possibility that Olivier was correct. Girls with daddy issues was par for the course for _any_ relationship, really, but this was...far beyond what anybody would expect.

_Oh, you want to meet my parents? Well, my mother died during childbirth so I never met her, and my father is living in a mental health hospice in a catatonic depressive state after his failed experiment that blew up half our house and half my back. We’d love to have you over for Sunday brunch - just remember to wear clothing that can’t also double as a strangulation device in case a resident gets any ideas._

How could she explain it? How could _anyone_ understand? Rebecca barely did, and she was at her bedside throughout all of her convalescence, and subsequent physical therapy.

A man who was simply fucking her because she allowed him to do so was going to head for the fucking hills if she tried to bring him here. It would all be talk - he’d say that _of course_ he would want to meet her father, he was a _good_ and _honest_ man -

She wipes at her face roughly, not wanting to show any sign of weakness here. It’s a matter of principle, rather than any real worry that her father will judge her - but Riza feels like she has been crying for days, too emotional and off-kilter and losing her sense of self as another wave of self-pity washes over her. It’s not like her to act like this.

“I’m sorry,” she manages, when she actually isn’t. There isn’t a reason for her to apologize but a old habit from the way he raised her. The literature crumpling in her hands as she clutches it tighter, trying to keep her breathing steady even as the tears drip onto the blanched skin of her knuckles. “I’ve been so stupid and I don’t know how I’m going to-”

She pulls back, sits up straighter, and blinks furiously as a nurse passes by, desperately trying to salvage any sense of calm that she can. Berthold sits there, focused on something down at his feet and Riza feels her heart sink low into her gut. Checking her watch, she decides that now is as good a time to leave - dinner was served earlier here and she doesn’t want to watch them feed him. It would be too much for her.

Riza tries her best to smooth out the creases in the journal she brought, leaving it next to her father on the side table between them. “This one had a lot of bad arguments,” she tells him softly as she stands, making sure her face is free of tears. “I’m sure you’ll poke holes in all of them.” She hesitates here, before leaning down and kissing the crown of his head very delicately.

Riza haphazardly gathers her belongings back from the front desk and she avoids questions for her wellbeing out of simple courtesy. Her phone is blinking and when the rest of the screen lights up her gut fucking plummets.

Rebecca has sent her multiple messages with the last one reading: _“We need to talk.”_ in perfect capitalization and punctuation. She thanks the fresh air, otherwise she’d feel herself suffocating at that point.

She’s not ready. She’s simply not ready. A terrible reality kicks in when she really doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

Riza nearly drops her phone when it lights up again and she somehow dares to look at the caller.

 _Spanish Inquisition_.

She pauses, contemplating whether to let it ring out or just straight-up send him to voicemail right then and there. But a part of her knows that she needs to talk to him, at the very least, and another - _extremely_ small - part of her just wants to hear him and be reassured that not everything has gone tits up.

Riza chews on her lip before sliding her thumb over her screen, and raises the phone to her head. “Hello?” she answers.

There’s a beat before he replies. “You’re a hard woman to get in contact with. Are you okay?” It’s an innocuous line of questioning, but she knows that he means more than what he’s letting on with this deceptively casual front. One could almost think he’s asking about the weather, not _how did it go with your flatmate, how dead do I need to be_. It would be funny if the consequences weren’t so alarmingly apparent.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she retorts, then winces. Her mood coming out of the hospice was not one to be thrown on him, that was entirely her own fault.

“Uh-” He never stammers, but he’s taken aback. “I just tried for your phone a couple of times. For my own sake, let’s say the first one was a buttdial.”

“Sorry,” she says, shifting her weight to her other leg and hoping he won’t take offense with how curt she’s acting. “It’s been a rough day.”

Roy hums down the line in thought, and she thinks that he’s smiling. “Well, I was thinking of asking you to come over to make that pasta dish you did last week because unfortunately I am _shit_ at cooking white people food-”

“If you buy the ingredients, I can cook.” she interjects. “I need asylum from my own place to work on some assignments. Fair trade?” She bites her tongue for the slip.

He’s quiet and Riza isn’t sure whether to judge his silence as the good or bad kind. “Fair enough to me,” he says plainly. “Do you need a lift?”

“No.” Riza says quickly and supplies with,”I was already leaving for the library and I’m getting on the bus. Besides, that wouldn’t be the best idea right now.”

“Oh… right.” There’s that uneasy pause again, the kind where Riza can feel that there are words he’s holding back, that he’s not giving her the full picture. “I’ll make a quick trip to the store then, you get here when you get here. You know where the spare is.”

* * *

A kind of fatigue overtakes her as she walks up the small pathway to his apartment. Not just a mental one, but an emotional one too, born from the stress and chaos of the last few days - and Riza feels it keenly today as she crosses the threshold into a living room that is a _lot_ messier than how she left it: there are journals and papers flung every which way and coffee mugs covering every available surface. She lets her book bag fall onto his couch with a heavy _thud_ , and sinks into the cool leather, cracking an eye open to watch as he stirs yet _another_ cup of coffee in the kitchen.

“Did you leave any coffee for the rest of the country?” she asks as he nears her. He smiles before it’s covered up by the cup in his hands. It reaches his eyes and they crinkle.

“Possibly not. Academia isn’t all what it’s cracked up to be, but I suspect you might’ve already guessed that.” He nods to her bag.

“You came prepared.” There might be a sarcastic lilt to his tone, but she’s mentally pushing it away as she empties out the contents of her bag onto his coffee table without a response, pushing the used mugs to the side as best she can with her forearm and elbow; the ceramic clinks dangerously.  “Is everything okay?” The couch gives into his weight when he takes a seat next to her, and she’s momentarily overwhelmed with the strong smell of coffee and lingering cigarette smoke. A warm hand rests on her knee and he asks with a soft squeeze. “Are you okay?”

She looks at his hand, looks at the thumb that is rubbing reassuring circles on her covered thigh, and then works her way up to him, frowning. “I’m fine. There’s a lot happening and I’m trying to find the headspace to sort it out,” Riza says automatically, robotically.

“Is there anything I can do?”

She shakes her head and leans forward for her laptop as the perfect excuse to shake off his hand. “Just tell me when you want me to start cooking, I’m gonna be working on the assignment due tomorrow for your class.”

He tuts softly. “Leaving it until the last minute, Miss Hawkeye? I expected better from you.”

She tries not to grimace, the feeling of shame settling in her gut uncomfortably. “I was a bit preoccupied in the beginning of the week. My boss had me playing housekeeper for most of it.”

“And now a personal chef too; what a slave driver.” An arm slides around her waist and his breath is unpleasantly hot on her neck as he murmurs, “But isn’t the benefit of sleeping with your professor reaping the rewards when it comes to due dates and assignments?”

“What?” She mumbles this a little, feeling an awful weight drop nauseatingly.

“You know.” He kisses the edge of her shoulder and they don’t feel like the kisses from the dream anymore. “Between you and me.”

Her lungs empty and she thinks she must’ve heard him wrong. But there was no mistaking him at this range. She bows her head and her jaw flexes. Riza grips the edge of her laptop before she shuts it with a bit more force than she intended. Somehow, the lump in her throat dissipates before she manages, “Is that what you think I’m here for?”  

Roy makes a confused noise when she nudges him off her, watching with bewilderment as re-stuffs her bag. “Riza,” he cajoles, but she ignores it. “Riza,” he calls out again, with a stern edge to it this time. He grabs a hold of her forearm when she stands up abruptly and Riza snatches it back

Haphazardly, she throws her bag over her shoulder and tilts slightly from the weight. “I’m sorry you’ve misconstrued this entire… _whatever_ this is. _”_

"I’m not -- No. I didn’t--” he scrambles to interrupt. He even _looks_ blindsided, tripping over his words. Riza moves around the otherside of the coffee table to leave.

Standing in front of her now, he holds his hands up to give her pause. “Listen, there’s no misconstruing anything. It was a _joke_. You’re upset.  So why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”

She’s momentarily taken aback by how quickly he saw through her in her fit. Her brow flattens when she recovers. “Nothing, but next time you’re calling me for a fuck, how about you be more upfront about it?” She tries to pass through but he’s reactively shifts in her path.

“Wait, we don’t have to do that. I’m more than okay with that, but please think for a moment. I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

Think? **_Think?_ ** That’s the last thing she wants to do. “Move.”

“If you want to talk about _this_ -” he gestures between her and him “-then fine. Perfect. But we have to _talk.”_

Riza doesn’t want to hear it; she prematurely shuts down all logic and reason. She shuts her eyes trying to quell the quake in her chest. “Step aside or so help me, I will -- scream.”

Something shifts then, in his face. It’s no longer confused, or imploring, but _scornful_ and Riza watches him stonily.

“You know what? _Fine._ I’m not gonna waste my breath on someone who is just gonna throw a tantrum instead of trying to make an honest effort here to-” he laughs darkly, roughly running a hand through his hair. “I don’t have time for this bullshit. You know where the door is.”

“Fuck you-”

“No, fuck _you_ \- I said I was joking; I’m sorry that offended you but do you _really_ think I went after you because you’re my _student?_ Christ Riza, you’re meant to have more brains than this-”

The book bag slides from her shoulder as she steps into his personal space, jabbing at his chest with her index finger. “So are you! You’re the fucking _professor-”_

“What, do you have some daddy issues you want to talk about? Air it out.”

She balls her fists and her eyes narrow, seething. Nails are digging deep into the flesh of her palm and she can see the muscles of his jaw flex as they stare heatedly at each other. All this pent up anger, these bottled emotions, she’s tired of them, tired of keeping them in.

They need to be let out.

“Do you even want to _talk_ about this like an adult, or would you rather have a hissy fit and have me feel -”

She shuts him up. With a strength she wasn’t aware she had, she shoves him back into the couch. He opens his mouth, but she kills the words at his throat by kissing him roughly, straddling him after he falls to a sit. She is not kind here; her teeth clack against his own and her fingers are quick to tangle in his hair - partly to keep him steady against her, partly to assert herself here. Riza’s never been one for forceful touch; _he’s_ the one who taught _her_ of what a little bit of pressure can amount to. So when she tugs his head back by the tufts of his hair in between her fingers to kiss him deeper, she can see the appeal, understands exactly _why_ Roy enjoys having her like so.

He groans underneath her, hips shifting against her own and she tugs his lower lip between her teeth, deliberately adding more pressure. The effect it has on him is emboldening, to say the least: his fingers skitter over her hips distractedly as his whole body shudders beneath her, eyes closed tightly. He’s quick on the uptake when she tugs at his shirt, and in a matter of seconds she finds herself face to face with a topless, panting and _flushed_ Roy Mustang; the sight of which tingles straight to her groin. The adrenaline from the anger, the heightened emotions, they are catalysts that ignite violently when sparked by this rushed desire; she can already feel herself growing wet with need, craving the sensation of him against her, in her.

“Pants,” she tells him shortly and he gapes at her a little inelegantly before his fingers fumble to undo his belt. Riza nearly yanks down his underwear in her impatience to touch him; he’s not as hard as she would like him to be. She needs him to plunge deeper, go further, make her forget her name or vice versa. So, Riza ducks her head down and takes him into her mouth with ease, enjoying immeasurably how throaty his moans have become, and the way his fingers rest on the nape of her neck, nails scratching pleasurably as she takes him even deeper.

She likes the control, surprisingly.

“Riza-” he manages and she lifts her head to watch him, the way his chest rises and falls in quick succession. There’s already a thin layer of sweat on him, and she draws back, shimmying off her pants and underwear. In the middle of repositioning herself on him, he has the daring idea to slide himself in between her lips and the audacity to smirk when he does.

She cups his jaw in her hands once more, her kisses becoming more demanding as they begin to move, before her hand drops to guide him into her. Riza moans into his mouth as she sinks onto him, every nerve ending sparking as her breath catches and holds. He is _so good_ that she breaks the kiss that numbed her lips. She’s past that point of feeling any kind of remorse. Just the feeling of him filling her slowly, inch by inch, is enough to momentarily erase all previous transgressions and to pause every other problem at the moment.

For better control, she hooks her feet in the creases of the couch behind him, arching her back slightly at the hastened pace of her thrusts. His arms curl, almost automatically, around her waist and he draws her close to him, head thrown back against the couch. The exposed skin of his neck is too tempting for her to resist. She bites and sucks and nips, smirking as Roy’s moaning rises in pitch every time her teeth scrape against his skin.

They find a steady pace as skin slaps against skin and somehow, the wet noises are louder than their own groans. She makes an effort with her hips to help him venture deeper. She grabs at the skin of his shoulders now, grasping as the pleasure compounds inside her steadily. It feels like the precipice is being continually pushed just out of reach, sometimes just in reach, and she feels fit to burst, shivering as his hands run down her torso and over her thighs. The touch is featherlight, just erring on the pleasurable side of ticklish, but it’s when a hand slips over her thigh to stroke her clit firmly that Riza knows her orgasm is upon her. She shifts only her hips now as her grip on his shoulder turns into clawing at his flesh. She doesn’t stop, and he’s not one to give in either, but it builds, _swells_ in a terrible, wonderful, _overwhelming_ way. Her hips buck and they buck. Her eyes are closed and she squeaks silently until it rushes over her without abandon. Her knuckles go to her mouth to stop herself from filling his living room with yelled expletives as her body tries to find balance. His hands coaxing her hips to continue even as she shudders above him, but even with her orgasm, she doesn’t relent.

“ _Fuck_ , Riza,” Roy grunts. “I can’t-”

 _“Come,”_ she orders, and seeing his face as he does just that, at the behest of her words, is a thousand times better than anything her mind could conjure on its own. She watches hungrily as his lips part and his eyes drift close, hips moving with only personal pleasure in mind. She savours the burn as his thrusts begin to slow, and carefully smooths his hair back from his forehead. Riza feels warm, sated and _full_ \- and a little embarrassed as he comes to, eyes dark and watching her intently. He licks his lips slowly, his gaze steady.

“What the _hell_ ,” he says slowly, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Shut up.” Riza laughs breathlessly, and tucks her hair in the damp crook behind her ear. “It’s a long story.”

His eyes soften like they did in the dream. “I have time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _He's a little bit red from rehearsal  
>  but sweet enough it can't matter.  
> Knew you wanted to ruin him  
> that morning on the mountain._
> 
> _He says you've got a burner coat on.  
>  Says you seem blinded by twisting  
> pretty & not meaning it. Recognizes  
> quiet, licks the seam. Some river  
> shocking your states apart.  
> Your boy came by & won you_
> 
> _over. Didn't buy you a drink because why bother  
>  bartering. Your boy, for free or you  
> won't risk it. Bet he knew the cliff houses  
> same as remembering the exit,  
> the tokens for toll money._
> 
> _You want to wreck the foxgloves.  
>  You want to un-layer for spring.  
> Unburden your knuckles  
> of expectation. Undress  
> to your ankles & bend._


	12. there is a book living inside your chest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, we bring u a new chapter that spiralled _way_ outta control. in a good way tho. we hope u enjoy it!!!! (otherwise i wasted a whole night of no sleeping and mar could've bought a new shirt).
> 
> after this we'll be focusing on [royaiweek](http://royaiweek.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr - and hopefully have an update ready once that week is done! come check it out, there's a tons of fun prompts to choose from :)
> 
> art by the incredible [colonelhotstuff](https://colonelhotstuff.tumblr.com/)!!!!
> 
> (buddy wakefield, in landscape)

The world works in peculiar, but repetitive ways, with mannerisms observable to those persistent enough to recognize it. Before, Riza would have herself believe she knew this, that there was a natural order to things to survive - to live. It had been etched into her skull following year after year of blood, sweat, and tears to maintain a semblance of independence. In order to eat, she would need money; in order to have money, she would need to work; in order to work, she would need to be the pillar of diligence and determination. Probably twice as much as her peers. Fitting, as they generally had the support of two parents - and she had none.

Pitying herself and hating the world was justifiable and well within her right, but it wouldn’t move her forward. It wouldn’t feed her, clothe her, sustain her. Personal attachments, like boyfriends, girlfriends, friends in general, _a social life_ ; they are expendable. She saw attachments as unnecessary distractions. Rebecca has remained with her only out of sheer tenacity, well aware of Riza’s priorities; Olivier came into the fold from their shared space. But the truth of the matter is that she’s softened since her steely vows to herself…

Because this time, she went back to him. And she’s realized that now, she was only surviving.

Riza stares into the bathroom mirror, beyond her reflection. He, the disruptor, casually lounges over the bedsheets, perusing his phone. Patient, cocky, ambiguous motherfucker. She doesn’t know what to make of him. Some of her knows there is genuine compassion there; part of her still feels Olivier’s sting at her naivete for believing that he could have feelings for her. It’s been _years_ since the last time she’s been so caught up in her own emotions, it felt like a rogue wrench in her well-oiled machine. Her knuckles rest on the marble countertop; her shoulder and head slouches as she sighs to her reflection.

When she moves to the threshold, there is a pleasantly dull ache in her hips that reminds her of their activities on the couch and in the shower when they were supposed to be getting clean. Riza stands there in a sweatshirt of his and some underwear, gripping the door frame with tense fingers and biting her lower lip.

There’s just something about being on this precipice. It’s like she’s staring at uncharted territory from the top of a mountain, ready to dive, and she won’t know what’s beyond cover of cloud until she jumps. All of her instincts are frazzled as if they are out of signal or reach from her personal network.

If she wants to live, and not just survive, she’ll have to strap in and reconcile what she feels. This she knows.  

* * *

The smell of cigarettes still linger in the apartment. Keeping the window open does nothing but bring in the pollen and add a crisp texture to his sheets from the settling spring. He hates himself for worrying himself to that point, but it had been the rational choice to leave her alone after what transpired at her apartment.

He had been stupid. Eager. He had allowed himself to get comfortable enough with her to risk it all, but strangely he feels no remorse for that. He could swallow his pride enough to admit there’s more that he wants from this ... _immoral_ thing between them.

He was remorseful for what he had done to her and what it could mean for her more than him. He could hear the yells when he opened his car door; he remembers hesitating, but eventually opted to avoid interfering. If this was the end of his career because he let someone catch them, then so be it. But she should be spared.

No calls or messages ever came. Not even from those of the distant past.

Against the headboard of the bed, Roy is quiet as he leans back and aimlessly flicks through the apps on his phone. It’s not out of boredom entirely...but he’s loathe to admit that there’s a part of him (a very _small_ part of him, mind) that is nervous for what is coming next.

Strangely, he wants to know how she’s been, what she’s been up to. It’s an odd feeling having had her at his side almost constantly and then have her absent. He had struggled crystalize the concept that he actually missed her. And then, this afternoon, she was distant. Something was off. He got even more concerned. The amount of emotions spilled out of her in that brief argument where there was so much ire and hurt. Guilt had settled in unpleasantly when he realized he had flipped the switch so quickly.

Riza appears in the doorway leading to the ensuite, cheeks still suffused with pink. “For the way your hair always looks,” she says, sinking onto the bed next to him and pulling down the sleeves of another borrowed sweatshirt of his, “I didn’t think you even had a comb in the house.” She sits cross-legged, and begins to work her fingers through her hair, isolating the knots.

Roy snorts, setting his phone down on his side table. “This takes hours to perfect, thank you.”

She smiles, attacking one knot with a dogged determination. “I suppose, it’d be a long shot to ask you if you have a hairdryer?”

He shrugs. “You’re free to look but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“You don’t _know_ if you own a hairdryer?”

“The folly of man.” She snorts at this. He watches her none-too subtly as she works through her hair, little droplets of water soaking into the sweatshirt, and It’s _unlike_ him to act so brazenly, so spontaneously.

She’s his walking, living and breathing contradiction, and he can’t get enough of the paradox that she presents him with just by existing in the same space as he does. He can’t call himself a seasoned academic by any stretch of the imagination - he has colleagues who are probably three times his age - but the chemistry program at Eastern University is a popular for good reason, and so Roy has had the pleasure (and displeasure) of working with plenty of students over the span of his teaching career. She’s not the first student that has blatantly caught some shut-eye in his class, justifications aside. Those... _incidents_ were getting to a certain point in his early morning class that he’d silently hope she’d fall asleep, just so he could make an example out of her. There was some perverse pleasure in startling the drowsy girl. He had known she’d appear at his office with the gall to ask for extra credit. Nobody has grabbed has grabbed his attention like she’s has managed - student, colleague, or anything else in the spectrum; especially when he wasn’t even looking.

But he doesn’t know whether that has had any bearing on that first meeting in the library or if it was his inability to sleep at night brought him there at that hour just to see her on pure happenstance. He prides himself on his ability to remember names and faces, but it could have been anybody else working that particular job, on that particular schedule just so she could fall asleep on his particular class.

Perhaps it didn’t matter _how_ they arrived to where they were now, half-dressed and thoroughly fucked on his bed. Maybe this was always going to happen.

“You okay?” she asks, with a slight crease forming between her brows and pulling him from his woolgathering with a warm hand on his knee.

Roy catches her hand with his own, and pulls on it slightly. “The real question is if _you’re_ okay?”

She looks away guiltily and tries to reassure with a disingenuine tug to the corner of her lip. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“As much as I enjoyed that little… show in the living room,” Roy trails off, knowing he’s verging on new territory while smoothing over the top of her hand with his thumb. In response, a pink prettily colors her cheeks once more. “I have a feeling there’s something more behind it.”

In silence, he waits a few moments before tucking some of her hair behind her ear, fingers tracing over the bone of her jaw to lift her head once more. “Riza?” he asks carefully, softly. He can feel his pulse beginning to thump unsteadily in his neck. He focuses on his breathing: slow, measured intakes that don’t bely the turmoil brewing inside.

She shifts again, but doesn’t pull her jaw away; her fingers grip his own tightly.

“Forgive me, but it’s not really something to concern yourself with.” she responds, somehow managing to make her voice sound so _small_ damn near breaks his resolve. She swallows, and blinks furiously. Roy readies himself to protest but she proves herself to be one step ahead of him. “After Olivier interrupted us and you left, there was a moment of contention, and today has been the last straw after everything has been piling up.”

Worry forms a knot in his throat, guilt makes it heavy in his gut. “With Olivier?”

Riza shakes her head. “No, but I apologize that I took that out on you. I shouldn’t have - you deserve better than that. It was unfair of me.”

“Why don’t you tell me about today?” He doesn’t realize it’s more than just waking up on the wrong side of the bed. He asks because he’s promised to be better since he moved from Central.

“Why?”

“If you don’t want to tell me, there’s nothing I can do about that. But I think airing it out is a better alternative to bottling it in and letting your problems - _our_ problems wreak havoc.”

With a touch of indignation, she argues, “I don’t see how wrongly taking it out on you makes it our problem, Roy.”

“The very fact that you did makes it our problem, Riza. Whatever it is, I’d like to help after the trouble I caused this week.”

She scoffs and anger begins to the earmark in places like her jaw and the tight ball of her free hand. “But it has nothing to do with you.”

Roy sighs again and moves to sit like she is with the cap of their knees inches apart. He clasps her hands with both sides now and lowers like he’s bowing to kiss the top of her hand rather than bringing it up to his face. When he comes back up, she’s staring at him strangely. “All I’m saying is you don’t have to make this burden yours alone.”

Riza exhales heavily, and from her shoulders to her posture, he sees her body sag from the breaking down of whatever weight she was carrying. Her mouth twitches like she’s choosing her words with heavy consideration. She breathes back in and her eyelashes flutter from the glassy surface her eyes have taken up. “For starters, let’s just put it out there that I didn’t have a normal childhood with a nice house and a picket fence.”

“Neither did I,” he responds, shrugging, with about as much emphasis as he’d use to talk about the morning weather report.

Like she’s embarrassed or something close to it, her hand nervously scratches her head and pushes another strand of damp hair behind her ear after it had come loose. She’s so hesitant he can feel the pull on his heartstrings just from the cracks that are beginning to surface.  The chew on her lip tells him there’s so much she’s holding in.

“When I was fifteen,” she starts out slowly and Roy feel himself tense to prepare what she’ll say. “I emancipated myself from my only living family member.”

The gears in his head stop. His eyes narrow, because he doesn’t know what it means. “Emancipated?”

The smile she gives him is grim and worn. “It’s a legal process to separate myself from my parent or guardian and be treated as an adult, to prevent myself from being put into a home.

“I never knew my mother; she died during childbirth so it left me with Father. He tried, some part of me wishes he had tried more, but children can’t choose their parents. He gave me a home, food, an education… I was more fortunate than most, I know. Some don’t even have a chance two out of those three.”

“When you were fifteen…” Roy sounds it out in his mouth as the gearworks finally begin its process again; quick to process her age, her only family member, why she would go through such drastic proceedings and it dawns on him swifter than he has a chance to limit his expression at the revelation.

“My back,” she vocalizes it for him. There’s no tremor in her voice, no indication of the months of rehabilitation and healing that would’ve happened. From the brief glimpses he’s seen, her scarring is older than his, paler, but he knows enough about burns to recognize third degree scarring when he sees it. Against her spinal cord too - he tries to push back the urge to see it in his mind’s eye. She moves her head up, blinking like she’s trying to keep her tears from overflowing down her cheeks and the muscles in his jaw flexes as her hand subconsciously twitches in his. “I remember having to show evidence for the court case by showing them the extent of injuries from the explosion. And then, photographic evidence wasn’t enough.”

 _Explosion?_ His curiosity careens in a way that he almost asks it, but Roy bites his tongue. “Have you seen him since?”

Riza nods again. “Today, in fact. By the time I got out of hospital, Father had been put into one and my case worker was already organising the papers needed for my emancipation. It kept me busy then.” Riza lowers her head and quickly swipes at her cheek with the hand he was holding. “I know this isn’t what you asked for.”

“I wasn’t expecting quite this much honesty,” Roy adds innocently enough, and he wasn’t.

She’s always managed to be a cornucopia of surprises for him, always made him second-guess the ground that they stand on. There is no tried and tested theory that aligns with her and her actions; instead, he feels as if he’s on the brink of a brand new discovery, and with every new part of her revealed to him, he becomes that much more secure in the knowledge that this is no ordinary set of circumstances.

He looks at her when he catches on to the her silence, and she’s _horrified_ , absolutely mortified as if his truthful comment shattered her after pouring out her life’s story. He catches her arm as she’s about to move away from him and the bed and crumble this between them. “Listen, that’s not how I meant it.” She stares at him as if she’s not completely convinced. “This is privileged information, from you, and I didn’t expect you opening up like this to me. Not after you had been so closed before.”

Roy watches her relax again and move another hand across her cheek frustratingly. She says lowly, “I’m sorry… I don’t do this often.” There aren’t many twenty year-olds with this level of maturity; even less for the ones that do _and_ swallow their pride to openly admit their mistakes. She’s done it from the first day he met her. Sadly, he now realizes it’s not borne from a position of instilled values. Mistakes are the harshest teacher, single-handedly tutoring Riza for a long time now whether the mistakes were hers or not.

“I know.” Wordlessly, he pushes himself to the back of the bed and he beckons her to join him. He holds her flush against his chest. She’s tense still, but he rubs her arms, then hugs her without suffocating her, until she’s ready to go on.

“I’m tired,” she says abruptly, resting her hand on his forearm just for the touch. “I’m really... fucking _tired_. Olivier’s dirty looks and pointed silence are more than I want to deal with. I can see why she’s angry and at the same time, I don’t. Father’s visits are just the same. Like I am just space that happens to occupied, no acknowledgement, too busy in his head trying to figure out where he fucked up so badly that he can’t even have staples-” She chokes on the end of the last word and burrows inside herself, bringing her knees back, but it’s his arms that catch her tears.

He pulls in the bundle of tense muscle even closer to him, relieved when she clutches to him tightly. Her sobbing is silent, he wouldn’t even know if not for her body tensing when she tried to silence them and the sniffling. She whispers I’m sorry again and he can’t possibly pull her closer.

It’s been a long time since he last found himself in this kind of position - though back then he was not only a lot younger, but far more rash and prone to reckless decisions. But unlike with his sisters, he cannot protect her in this moment from whatever bogeyman that haunts her, whether real or imagined. There are no injustices to be rectified, no men to go after with quick fists. Her story has already been told, neatly santised for those who go prodding, and now he’s witness to the messy truth that follows afterwards: you’re never free of the abuse, not even with bars or miles or even six feet of dirt to separate you.

He tries to keep his face impassive as she readjusts once she’s reigned in the sobs, sniffling and scrubbing at her eyes roughly with the sleeve of the borrowed sweater. At this rate he’ll need to send her back into the bathroom to clean her face: it’s become all puffy and blotchy, but the raw emotion allows him to appreciate the beauty that goes beyond her skin. He’s quick to run his thumbs over her cheekbones, wiping away the tears that still spill over, before drawing her close to him, their limbs tangling awkwardly as he rests his chin on top of her shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” he tells her softly, his thumbs rubbing reassuring circles on her skin. In this position, he can feel every shuddering inhalation she takes.

Riza snorts. “I don’t remember you being there when it happened.”

“It’s not an apology. It’s sympathy. No one should go through something like that.”

Passive and still, she says, “I appreciate it, but I’ve had enough pity to last several lifetimes.”

“It’s not pity either. I can’t imagine it’s an easy story to relive,” he trails off, pressing a kiss onto the crown of her head.

“I suppose say the same about yours.”

He straightens and swivels to look at her. “Mine?”

Riza turns her head, smiling slightly despite her reddened eyes. “Your side. It’s hard to miss.”

Roy laughs, sliding his arms properly around her stomach. “Not quite. Even if I wanted to tell, I can’t. The non-disclosure stops me from saying basically anything.”

“You have a non-disclosure?” She turns her entire body now, crumpling the sheets beneath them to face Roy. “On that?”

“Pretty par for the course when working for the military,” he explains. “I can’t think of any colleagues who aren’t under at least one.”

Riza blinks and shakes her head slightly. “You used to be in the military?”

“I wasn’t always teaching chemistry, Riza. Even you have to admit, I’m a little younger than most to have a cushy position as a professor.” It’s the closest he could give as a hint without violating the clauses. He knows that she’s smart enough to ask the right questions to get the information she wants, _if_ she’s paid attention in his class. She’s chewing her lip thoughtfully, and watching him with keen, bright eyes.

“Is that why you’re so fit?” she asks finally, a sly grin growing on her face. “It’s not a complaint but it never made sense contextually. You’re a professor, not an athlete.”

“ _That’s_ the question you ask? Not curious about _how_ it happened, or what kind of cool battle I might’ve gotten it from?”

Shrugging, her grin only widens in response. “You just said you can’t say anything. I went for the next best thing.”

He can’t help his own grin, so he runs a hand through his face. “Old habits die hard, but I’m nowhere where I used to be.”

Her gaze falls back to his chest and he can see her mouth the words _where I used to be_ \- he’s not one for peacocking - well, not _that_ much - it’s an appreciated ego boost nonetheless.

“But now I’m sure there’s so much I don’t know about you.”

The grin fades from his face. “What do you mean?”

Riza gestures to the walls. “There’s no pictures. Here or in your office. And just earlier you said, your childhood wasn’t like most. I’m curious now, what’s your story?”

Roy contemplates for a moment. Five years back, he would’ve done anything to avoid the subject. Now, he feels the need to equal the footing. “We’re similar in some ways,” he starts, cocking his head to the side. “My parents died when I was one, maybe two. A car crash, I’m told. I was bounced around the system for ten years, give or take, until my aunt found me. By that time I had several chips on my shoulder...I didn’t make it easy on her.”

At this point, Riza’s eyes are wide like saucers, her jaw is slack. “How many...?” The rest of her question is unspoken, but he knows what she’s hinting at.

“Just two. The first one was okay. The last one…” he swallows; it’s been a _long_ time since the fires from that deep-rooted fear and contempt have had a chance to spark. He continues matter-of-factly, “They were not kind people.” He rolls his shoulders, feeling the familiar _pop_ as his bones shift over one another. “But they were clever not to leave visible marks. My sisters were less lucky in that regard.”

“Sisters?”

Despite the grim nature of the conversation, he can’t help the smile that grows on his face at their mention. “Yes, fourteen.”

Her mouth drops properly. “ _Fourteen_ sisters?”

“You get more funding if you take on more kids, and my last foster home had a good efficient money laundering operation going on. It’s not a perfect system, but most of them got out. With only a few bruises."

“That’s horrible.” Her hand falls back down to her lap from covering her mouth.

He meets her eyes, glassy with unshed tears. “You don’t have to cry for me. It’s been a long time since then. All I can do now is help those that are still in situations like that.”

“What do you do?”

“Charities, mostly. Making sure to donate to the ones that are honest about their endeavors.”

“No, I meant,” she hesitates again. “To cope, to go on. To deal with ...that.” Sighing, Riza looks at her fingers. “I kept people at arm’s length. It felt like they would just disappear eventually.”

Roy sits up slowly, mulling over his words with care. “It’s easy to fall into the trap that one day you’re going to forget it ever happened. That won’t happen. You’re going to remember. You’re going to be reminded at the worst of times. For me, I think it was surrounding myself with people who love me that helped the most.”

Riza exhales heavily with a bitter laugh tailing it. She twists her fingers in her palms. “You’ll have to help me find some who do.”

He stills, suddenly _very_ aware of the feeling of constriction in his chest. “I’m sure your friends...” he tries.

“Olivier gave me a good chewing out after you left, remember? And Rebecca…” Her hand goes through her now frizzy hair. “She texted that we need to talk. We do. But I’m terrified to confront her about all this.”

“Then why would you risk your friends to come here?” The silence that follows is deafening and then, he realizes what kind of response he’s asked of her.

She visibly tenses from his words and looks at him with apprehension, trying to sounds the words. “I-I don’t know. It was instinct. It was…”

There’s an expectation hanging in the air between them that he doesn’t want to give description to. He feels like he’s fucked it up after so much that’s been discussed. Now, there’s a hand shrouding the space around his heart and squeezing at all the right moments. He waits on her response with bated breath.

She’s quiet for a few moments before she responds. “Probably the same reason you’d listen to a student’s problems who has nothing to do with your own.”

His heart twists uncomfortably at her cool tone. “Riza…” he runs a hand through his hair roughly. “We’re both beyond that point of relying on our positions to cover for us. You stopped being my student a long time ago. To be honest with you, the moment you pointed out in my office that I had made the exception for you, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to be objective with you.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but the words are robbed of her.

“I’m not even grading your essays anymore,” he confesses. “ Not since the library incident. I get a colleague to do moderation with me and I make sure to always put your assignments in with his pile. I will not have your reputation ruined because of me, but please be honest. Do you _really_ still think of me as just your professor?”

He can see the cogs in her mind turning over and over, trying to formulate a response that deflects much more than it answers. “No,” she says eventually, sounding the words slowly as if savouring the weight they hold. “Not anymore.”

It is not the answer he expects to hear, and he thinks he must’ve heard her wrong. He had imagined this conversation a thousand times, imagined a thousand different responses that removed her as an active participant. He wouldn’t have stopped her. But instead, she’s presented him with the option he’d scarcely dared to believe: that maybe, it was entirely possible that he hadn’t imagined this all up in his head.

“I know now that opening up… is a trial for you. I don’t doubt that for a second. I know what I want from this and it’s completely different from when we first started this. But I’ll give you the option to decide.”

“And what would that be?”

“What I want?”

Riza nods hesitantly.

He takes her hand gingerly and he studies them for a moment, how well their fingers settle against each other. Her body betrays what her words hide - and it’s that sliver of hope that gives him the courage to continue. “It doesn’t make sense to me. It’s not by any means logical. There are a million and a half alarms going off in my head that this is ludicrous and detrimental for both of us. But the truth of it now, is that I’d like to be with you.

“And not because of the sex, or age difference, or whatever else that comes to mind once people realise the nature of how and where we met. But because you are different in how you think, I admire your stubbornness, your own will to survive on your own. I couldn’t imagine the loneliness. And I think you deserve to know someone does care about you.”

Her brows furrow. “Who?”

He shakes his head in bemusement, despite the nerves coursing through him. _God_ , it’s like he’s a teenager all over again. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Riza. _I_ care about you. A lot.”

“You _do?”_   She blinks slowly, a perplexed look settling on her face. “No, _no_ , we weren’t meant to- you said-”

“I know what I said,” he says quickly, swallowing down the fear bubbling up his throat. “And if you want to stop it now because I crossed that line, I understand. I really do.”

Her expression falters. “I don’t-” she takes a deep breath “- I don’t want that,” she replies quietly, squeezing his fingers tightly. “But this is just - I liked it before, before-”

“Before other people found out?” Her shoulders sag and Riza nods.

“I just- I like this, I like us. But if everyone else is going to think I’m only sleeping with you for grades.”

“And I know you’re not, if your reaction to my joke was anything to go by.” He’s trying his hardest not to grin because _nothing_ has been confirmed, not really. It doesn’t quell the giddy feeling growing in his stomach, however. “I wouldn’t ask anything of you, not at least until the trimester is over.”

Her lips twitch upwards. “So where does this leave us?”

His thumbs brush over her knuckles. “I’m not sure that’s the right question to ask. What I _do_ know is that I like you, I like spending time with you, and I would like to keep doing that.”

The smile growing across Riza’s face is the kind he’d like to see several times whether she’s been crying or not, and it’s hard not to mirror her. “I think I’d like that too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There is a chance  
>  you will show up laughing  
> made of fortified fan blades and Ferris wheel lights  
> true of heart and best foot forward  
> our long-awaited love made easy,  
> remember for sure no doubt these things:_
> 
> _The joy,  
>  we are a point of complete.  
> This life,  
> standing guard over your solitude.  
> My eyes  
> are monsters for most things approaching.  
> I’m probably gonna need a hand with that.  
> This heart.  
> This sleeve.  
> Neither one of them things is all that clean.  
> But the rain,  
> my lucky number,  
> been doin’ her part to make things right_
> 
> _for the light bulbs  
>  and the bruises.  
> Hiding holy water was not my forte this life.  
> Forte  
> is French  
> for blanket fort.  
> I have trusted my corners to revolving doors  
> but am fluent in getting better.  
> We are fluent in bouncing back,  
> lifting quickly,  
> learning fast._
> 
> _Our courage  
>  is a natural habitat.  
> Ya know we’re gonna build a body to keep the wolves out.  
> Hold my house  
> you humble barbarian,  
> this door only opens for the remarkable now._
> 
> _So we will both show up remarkable.  
>  Speak your piece from the I can do anything.  
> Say it clearly.  
> Follow through_
> 
> _on runways,  
>  in turbulence.  
> There is a book  
> living inside your chest  
> with dilated instructions  
> on how to make a safe landing.  
> It was written  
> for crash landers.  
> Thank you.  
> I am coming home to listen._
> 
> _It is time._
> 
> _Please  
>  forgive me my distractions.  
> There’s a freckle on your lip.  
> It is a national archive.  
> Give it to my ear  
> so you can see what I mean.  
> Here hold my breath  
> I will be right back._
> 
> _There are gifts  
>  hidden beneath these lungs.  
> Slide your hand over my mouth  
> and I will speak them  
> in hang glider,  
> in hilltop,  
> from the loyalty of a landscape,  
> silk in a sandpaper offering plate,  
> the jacket on a handsome man.  
> That lip  
> Sweet Grape, you cannibal,  
> kiss my eyes  
> until they see what it is that I wish to write down:_
> 
> _Your name._
> 
> _Film strips of prayer.  
>  Ribbons of a garden in stereo.  
> Driftwood welded to the guesthouse.  
> Ringfinger wrapped in a horseshoe nail.  
> I will meet you by the eighth day dream  
> in the wide open purpose of a locomotive coming  
> to a stand still with the sea,  
> like thumb_
> 
> _on pulse_
> 
> _you watch_
> 
> _what happens_
> 
> _when the air_
> 
> _erupts_
> 
> _into suction cups  
>  opening up to breathe,  
> like the love in my lungs  
> took the tip of my tongue  
> and finally taught it how to read,  
> you five-acre ladder-backed pearl book pouring  
> from a pileated chest of Earth.  
> I know our story may look like octopus ink  
> to the rest of the breath in this world  
> (flying in under the radar  
> holding to a pattern of worth).  
> Come closer you guest of honor.  
> Chickens stay off the porch_
> 
> _in quiet,  
>  in kindly.  
> We are the house gift-wrapped in welcome mats.  
> Your dinner’s on the table in thanks of that  
> and the loaves of chocolate toast,  
> the Book of Job and of Jet Propulsion,  
> raincoats floating in a rocket ship,  
> playing naked checkers in bed.  
> It is an utterly epic arrival  
> every time I get to see you again._
> 
> _God, this is what I was talking about  
>  for like 37 years,  
> a true story,  
> of oceanthroat,  
> of grace,  
> the holy goodness glory  
> I was praying to your face,  
> My Man,  
> this is what I meant  
> and this is what I’m meant to do  
> so sit me down inside us now  
> and let me praise the greatest good in you  
> by laying down my weapons  
> including the shield,  
> in rest,  
> inception,_
> 
> _on cue, my friend,  
>  you came  
> your name  
> well lit,  
> stenciled on the walls of Fremont County  
> years before we even met  
> in landscape,  
> in scope  
> and so,  
> wing tipped,  
> I wrote it  
> down to the ground you walk on  
> with the heels of my helium shoes,  
> “Put your ear to the sky  
> and listen my darling,  
> everything whispers I love you.”_


	13. you are not made out of metaphors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i stole this from mar's ffn upload bc it pretty much sums up what i wanted to say: _SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT. we try not to go longer than a month, but royaiweek is a blessed holiday and none other like it. We appreciate the wonderful comments and reviews so far. The love for this is honestly... wonderful and amazing, despite the nature of this story. thank you so much again._
> 
> also! 43765784 years ago we uploaded a 'deleted scene' from may i feel as a standalone smut piece, and i've finally remembered to include a link for u all. it's called **["i'll squeal, said she"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13891770)** and it was originally gonna be the first smut of the story. plans changed tho, but we didn't wanna deprive u of the scene that named the fic. go check it out if u haven't already!!!!!
> 
> we hope u love this chapter. we worked really hard on it <3
> 
> (sarah kay, the type)

“You’re not giving me much to work with here,” Rebecca whines. “I don’t understand why you can’t just explain to me what’s going on? _Why_ are you moving out?”  She trails Olivier around the apartment, purposely getting in the way as much as the boxes and movers are in _her_ way. And Olivier...

Olivier is like this giant wall of ice, cold and silent, and somehow manages to replicate the properties as well. Even as the morning sun sneaks in through the windows and open front door and warms the place, the temperature inside their flat is downright glacial, creating this inhospitable environment where nothing gets said.

The shrill sound of tape unwinding fills the room as Olivier pulls on the end harshly. She doesn’t even look at her when she seals yet another cardboard box up. “I told you already. Ask Riza.”

Rebecca groans, and runs a hand through her hair, grimacing briefly at how greasy the roots feel. “If I could! She’s not answering her phone. I’ve tried her like, a million times already.” She looks down at her phone: it’s not even ten in the morning and the stupid thing is already down to thirty percent.

A snort comes from Olivier’s direction.

“If you know something, just _tell me._ ” Her hands are thrown up and slap immediately down to her thighs. To make matters worse, her phone slips from her hands, clattering noisily on the wood floor, as if the entire universe is out to get her. She dramatically swipes it up with another frustrated groan, especially watching Olivier exit the room, and she stomps after her, unwilling to drop the subject just yet. If Olivier is going to be an immovable object, then Rebecca Anne Catalina will transform herself into an unstoppable force as stubborn and willful as her good hair. She refuses to be beaten, especially now that there’s important information dangling in front of her. She huffs. “She was supposed to see her dad yesterday and she hasn’t been home yet. My eyes are literal puff balls, Olivier, literal _puff balls_ . I don’t even know if she’s okay or _dead_ or-” she gasps dramatically, pointing an accusatory finger at her vacating flatmate. “You didn’t kill her, did you?” The question is geared more towards a joke, but in all honestly, she wouldn’t put it past Olivier to kill someone if she felt it was necessary.

Olivier makes a face and pointedly tells her, “No. Don’t be stupid.”

“How is that stupid? What am I supposed to do or think or _feel_ if neither of you are talking to me?” The whining has crept back into her voice but Rebecca can’t find it in herself to care very much. She hates being left out of the loop, and the lack of forthcoming information from either of them has tipped over from being merely a _nuisance_ to downright worrying.

She shrugs callously. “Figure it out.”

“Olivier, you’re _supposed_ to be my friend.”

“And currently, that friend is in the middle of moving out and _busy.”_ She turns away from Rebecca to point and instruct the men with her how to handle her belongings.

“But _why_ ? Can you just tell me what happened?” Olivier offers no indication that she’s going to pay her any more attention so Rebecca calls Riza’s phone once more, sends her another frantic text thats reads “ _u better have a good explanation why ur bringing me to an early grave!!_ ”, and is absolutely beside herself to see her battery drop to nineteen percent. She grumbles all the way to her room about stupid technology and stupid phones and _what the fuck, world?!_ Dealing with her parents and acting as a translator who never got past the fifth grade level in Creta, _that_ was a sensible problem and anticipated headache of her break. There was nothing that could have helped her anticipate coming back to a flat half-packed up with both her friends unwilling or unresponsive to explain what had led to this new development.

Rebecca frowns entering her room, deftly avoiding the piles of clothing scattered across her floor with practiced ease. She flops on her bed to plug in her phone to its charger, and listens to Olivier intermittently bark out orders to the movers. _Why won’t you tell me? What aren’t you saying?_ Riza left no note, no message, no indication of where she would be, where she was, or where she was going. It’s difficult imagining or predicting where she could be for someone as systematic as Riza. A homebody to boot. Olivier was of even less help, and she was _in_ the damn building.

She deflates, exhaling. Ignorance never settled well with her, and it pisses her off because _somebody_ could just put her out of her misery and simply _tell_ her. But no, all she can do is guess. She’s wondered all night what could have happened, but each scenario seemed even more unlikely than the last. It would have had to been something big, something cataclysmic - but what could be that monumental, that _earth-shattering_ that it would keep Riza away and for Olivier to make a spontaneous decision to just move out?

Her train of thought is derailed when her phone blinks from notifications from people she doesn’t want know about. Set on leaving a very wordy - and possibly weepy - voicemail this time, she tries for Riza again and by a sheer miracle, it doesn’t go immediately to her answering message. Rebecca springs up just to be yanked back down because of the cord but through her other ear she hears a confused voice ask, “What’s... going on?”

Her fingers cancel the call and a rush of excitement washes over her along with a strange prickle of uneasiness. She slows down in the hallway when she can make out two voices talking angrily to each other, but there’s so much noise from the movers and the truck outside that she can’t make out the words, only the tone. Rebecca quietly enters the living room, now much emptier than before, except for the couch. She easily spots Riza, disheveled and puffy-eyed herself, in the middle of a glaring match with Olivier. She’s never seen so much ire out of Riza; the only other time Riza came close to that body language in the past was the one time she felt excessively competitive in recreational archery, and that moderate-to-high level of contempt from Olivier is usually reserved for useless drivers in traffic, but never at ... _friends._

“- can’t hide where you’ve been. Where’d you get the sweater from, hm? _Professors R Us?”_

The last part is lost on Rebecca but she doesn’t catch its meaning. She’s still processing the scene before her. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say there’s a hint of a snarl on Riza’s lips. “Yeah. It helps when I have to deal with the frigid bitches around here.”

The smile curling on Olivier’s lips is devoid of any remaining affection and it hitches in a way that exposes her teeth. “Remember what I said. Don’t come wailing when it’s a mess all around your feet and you’ve managed to get Rebecca involved in it. God knows you’ll be sorry then.”

Riza mirrors her strange not-smile. “Thanks for the legal advice. Say hello to Alex for me.”

Olivier lets out a derisive grunt and turns her nose up and away from from the other woman. The difference in their heights and body language make it look like an excerpt from some comedy sketch or children’s dramatic play...but Rebecca doubts that this is some elaborate prank.

Rebecca jumps when her name is shouted in the booming voice only Olivier can have, but rarely uses. “What the _shit_ , Liv. I’m right here.”

Riza sees her lingering where the living room wall corners into the hallway. “'Becca.” She says her name softer than Olivier. The meekness isn’t a surprise, but it’s how quickly she managed to change her expression, like she didn’t expect Rebecca to be there to see her like this.

Olivier looks around the room before rolling the sleeves of her sweater down as she walks towards the front door. “I’m going now,” she announces loudly, scooping up her Hermès bag up off the set of drawers in the entrance way. She looks back at Rebecca one last time, fingers curled tightly around the heavy wooden door. Olivier pauses for a moment, almost as if she were hesitant, but any lingering doubts disappear from her face as her eyebrows are drawn tightly together once more. “You have my number in case you need a place to stay tonight.”

And then she leaves, the door shutting behind her in the familiar way Rebecca has heard countless times before.

A jarring silence is left behind, hanging over the common room. She can’t say it’s uncomfortable, but it’s definitely unfamiliar for both of them to be in the same room and not speaking as they were. Riza is still, looking at her as calmly as she can manage but Rebecca knows her well enough to know when some of that is merely a front. “What... is... _happening_?”

“Rebecca, I can promise you I didn’t expect anything like this to happen.” Riza’s voice is fast - not frantic, but with enough emphasis to make her pause. It didn’t take long for the front to wobble, but it’s still there.

Rebecca nods slowly, walking over and resting her hands on Riza’s shoulders. For a split second, she notices how tense she feels under her palms. “I sure hope so! I’ve been worried about you all _night!_ You weren’t answering your phone. Olivier refused to say _anything_ . I’m left in the dark. Where have you been? Did something happen with your dad?” She impulsively grabs Riza’s head and pecks a kiss on her forehead, relieved, in the middle of her questions. “What are you _wearing_? Is it your guy? I’ll kill him but you gotta tell me first.”

Riza blinks slowly. “Olivier... didn’t say anything?”

Rebecca shakes her head firmly, drawing Riza in close and rubbing her back affectionately. She steps back to expressively tell her saga. “ _No_ . It’s been killing me since I got home yesterday. Imagine me, _exhausted_ from jet lag and a week-long trip with Mr. and Mrs. Catalina. And then - _boxes_ lined up against the wall. For a hot second, I thought _I_ was getting evicted. Then, I saw _you_ weren’t here, so I thought _you_ were getting evicted. But it was just Liv’s shit. I asked and I asked and I asked and she would only give me vague answers and tell me to talk to you. That you were hiding something, that you weren’t being honest, that _I’d_ be in trouble because of it.”

Her friend closes her eyes with a sigh, shoulders sagging. Quietly, she says, “Hopefully you had a good trip.”

“That doesn’t even _matter_ right now.” She swipes her hand across the air to gesture the topic of her trip off the table. Riza’s reaction does nothing to reassure Rebecca of her worst conclusions. “Is it true... have you been hiding something from me?”

Riza looks up, an expression akin to shame cresting over her face, and Rebecca might as well play the lottery today because that’s another expression she rarely sees on her. Riza nods slowly, chewing on her lower lip.

Rebecca pulls her over to the couch that Olivier left behind for some unknown reason - the TV or console that used to be in front of it now on the back of the moving truck, going places unknown. “How bad is it? Is it that bad?”

Riza exhales noisily, smoothing out the fabric of her jeans. She’s nervous too - not a good sign. “Potentially? Yes.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “If things were to play out in the wrong way, the ramifications could be…” she raises her eyebrows “...enormous.”  

This entire time she’s been cautious and mindful of Riza’s little tells, but it’s taking a great deal of willpower to not blurt out “what the fuck did you do?” She tries a gentler approach, hopefully one that will be reassuring to them both despite her own simmering unease. “Okay… as long as you didn’t kill someone - well, even that is up for debate. I don’t know, I’m just - I’m here for you. More importantly I am _worried_ for you. So just tell me.”

Riza lets out a small laugh in spite of herself. “What is it with you and killing today?”

“I’m amped up from all this.” She gestures vaguely in the room. “Let me live and also tell me, because otherwise I’m gonna explode.”

Riza hesitates, twisting her fingers together tightly and flicks her eyes at different points in the room until she settles on her knees. “You obviously remember the guy.”

“Yes, yes. Is he a mob lord? A trafficker? A -!”

 _“‘Becca_.”

She swallows the guesses down. Now is not the time to scare her off. “Sorry, I’m trying to be patient.”

“I know.” Riza shoots her a quick, hesitant smile. “I appreciate it.”

“But I am thirty seconds away from shaking it out of you.”

Riza fights back a grin. “He’s not a mob lord or anything remotely heinous.” Riza sighs once more, her knuckles blanched white with the pressure of curling her fingers in. “He’s…a professor. My professor.”

The gears turning stop and for brief second, Rebecca experiences the out-of-body moment people talk about when they say they need to sit down. Good thing she’s already sitting. Her jaw unhinges slowly and she sits there gaping at Riza while she’s turned away. “Is it...the … horse guy? The textbook dick - the naps. In the cafeteria - the-the _Chem Lit one_ ?” She’s not making sense, but what she’s hearing doesn’t make sense either. Riza gives her a cursory glance and confirms it with a nod. Rebecca covers her mouth and her mouth still goes on despite the muffling. “So then - the three orgas-” She shakes her head, ridding herself of the mental image. “Mm, don’t want to go there. But - but the lingerie, the blowjobs, the - everything we talked about... It was… for him?” This is... _completely_ out of left field, unprecedented, especially from her best friend. This is the sort of drama she’d expect to see on the late-night soaps, with b-rated acting and a c-rated plot.

It’s not the sort of thing she’d associated with Riza Hawkeye under _any_ circumstances. A gut punch to who she _thought_ Riza Hawkeye was. A low blow that she wasn’t trusted enough to be told the whole truth.

Riza nods again. If at all possible, she sinks further in her seat in what looks like shame. “Yes, and I’ve wanted to tell you -”

“Aren’t you _working_ for him?” It sounds more accusatory than she intends it to be.

“Yes. I am,” Riza answers firmly, her fingers curling into fists on her knees. “And you can save your knee-jerk reaction to that.”

As soon as she said that, Rebecca could see the walls forming around Riza again. It dawns on her then. This must’ve been the conversation - or the _fight_ she had with Olivier and well...Olivier was never one to mince words. It doesn’t take much to figure out exactly where the root of that fight would’ve stemmed from. Armstrong would’ve tried to strong-arm her opinion and morals right out the door, with hardly any compassion or any consideration that this is coming from Riza, one of the most sensible people she knew.

“Okay,” she pinches the bridge of her nose with either side pressed with the tips of her fingers. “Okay, okay, _okay_ . From the top. No more hiding and don’t you _dare_ leave anything out.” She twists to face Riza properly, gripping her hands tightly in her own. “Believe me when I say I love you and I will always do my best to support you but I need to have the whole truth so I can do that. _Capisce?”_

Finally, a smile. “All right.”

* * *

The entire retelling of her saga seems unreal. Like she’s orating someone else’s story, someone else’s gossip. Rebecca listens and even tries to keep her interruptions to a minimum; this tells Riza she’s actively trying despite her nature to interrupt and ask questions at point-blank, offering no comments but vague noises and the occasional gesture to encourage her to continue speaking. In some ways though, it’s more worrying. When she’s finally finished recounting the events that led up to what she dubs the ‘couch incident’ in her head and the event of the night before with Roy, Rebecca has practically withdrawn into herself.

Riza doesn’t know how to read the small lift on the corner of Rebecca’s lip. She shifts to the corner of the couch to look at the cushion as if the image of them will reappear and shifts her attentions back to Riza. “No wonder she left the couch behind,” Rebecca finally says. “Though she’d be pissed if she knew what I had done on it.”

The tension tapers off, starting with Riza’s hands, when she sees a teasing smile grow across Rebecca’s face. “It’s best we don’t bring that up, or she’ll set the entire place on fire.”

Relief doesn’t begin to describe it. She knows she shouldn’t want a validation for this; she has no qualms admitting how much she is lacking, morally and ethically, in her actions. Still, after Olivier, she doesn’t want to venture into the hypothetical scenario where Rebecca walks out the door too. It was one thing for Olivier - a friend of a friend first and foremost, who she more or less got along well with. Her strong reaction and even stronger departure stung, she wouldn’t lie, but Riza’s known to let go of acquaintances and almost-close friends before.

But Rebecca? Her first real friend? The girl who had stuck it out with her through thick and thin, the only one not to abandon her or change the way she treated Riza in the wake of the fire? It doesn’t bear thinking about. She’d sooner die of a broken heart than exist in a world where Rebecca couldn’t look at her.

Riza makes note to apologize later for her delayed teenage rebellion with all this, though it wasn’t. Not really. “Well.” She waves a hand across the emptied room, trying to find a thread to tie this conversation up nicely. “Here we are. I didn’t think she’d go to these lengths. At most I expected judgmental, disapproving glares and radio silence until the lease was finished.”

Rebecca snorts, curling her knees under her. “Olivier doesn’t work in shades of grey. It’s black or it’s white for her and I can see where she’s coming from. If this goes tits up and I mean,   _really_ fucks up Riza-”

“Don’t worry, Olivier made sure to explain. I’ve gone through the outcomes in my head several times. It’s confusing because logic isn’t prevailing where it should. I keep thinking of how things could have been different if I had done something, but I didn’t.”

Rebecca watches her carefully, as if there’s a new light shining over Riza. Perhaps there is if she can’t even make sense of her own actions. Olivier certainly saw her differently at the sudden revelation. No, the way Rebecca is regarding her isn’t laced with disdain or contempt or something equally condemning; rather, Rebecca looks at her in the way she looks at her grades when they get released: sheer disbelief mixed with pride. Then, her eyes narrow. “This isn’t just fucking, is it?” She scooches closer. “You are genuinely invested in… this.”

Riza looks away with a guilty smile crosses her face. “In my defense, we didn’t intend for it to get to this point.”

Rebecca grabs a hold of her forearm and leans over into Riza’s line of sight, the damned knowing smile still on her face. “I never thought I’d see the day,” she teases again, but not unkindly. She brings her elbows in and there’s a small wiggle in her seat. “I have _never_ known you to catch feelings. In all my years…” she trails off, as if she was a wisened matron. “This is surprising, even for you, y’know.”

Riza scoffs, with an honest loss of words. “That makes two of us.”

Rebecca settles back. “So what did you in? What’s so special? Unless his dick is just _that_ magical.”

Riza laughs; she can’t help it. There’s relief that Rebecca isn’t immediately disapproval, that lowers the chances she’s going to walk out on her, and it’s only just hitting her now. The glee bubbles up in her throat and she decides to tease her back, “I mean...”

Rebecca cackles loudly, throwing her head back. “Stop! Okay! _Oh,_ my god. No need to brag. Seriously though.” she leans in closer, eyes wide and imploring. “I do trust you Riza. You’re an adult and you’re also one of the most responsible people that I know - which makes this so strange because it is _unlike_ you.”

“Trust me. If I could choose to have it under different circumstances, I would.”

Another grin, she knows what she’s thinking, but it isn’t voiced. Instead, she says, “In the end, it _’_ s your choice. I haven’t been sold on this one hundred percent, _but-!”_ she holds up a hand as Riza opens her mouth to interrupt, and then rests it over Riza’s. “I don’t want you keeping this from me, all right? I wouldn’t want you to be alone in the event he decides to be blind just how lucky he is. Sometimes a second opinion is a good thing, especially with magic dicks involved.”

Something hot prickles behind Riza’s eyes and she looks down to Rebecca’s hand. “Thank you.”

“Now, I’m curious as to how this magical dick wizard managed to capture the feelings of the hardened, _elusive_ Riza Hawkeye.”

She closes her eyes involuntarily at the invasive mental image of magician’s cape and nothing else on Roy. “'Becca... it’s embarrassing.”

“Oh, no no no, missy. This is an exclusive and I want the full scoop on _this.”_ She jumps up from her seat. “I’ll get the liquor.”

Riza blinks away the tears from the sudden change to levity. “It’s not even midday, Rebecca.”

Her friend stops herself with both hands on the threshold to the kitchen. There’s a mischievous aura around her. She shrugs with a toothy grin, before disappearing and announces, “Then we’ll have mimosas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at,  
>  You can let them look at you.  
> But do not mistake eyes for hands or windows or mirrors.  
> Let them see what a woman looks like.  
> They may have not ever seen one before._
> 
> _If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch,  
>  You can let them touch you.  
> Sometimes, it is not you they are reaching for.  
> Sometimes it is a bottle, a door, a sandwich, a Pulitzer — another woman.  
> But their hands found you first.  
> Do not mistake yourself for a guardian or a muse or a promise or a victim or a snack.  
> You are a woman — skin and bones, veins and nerves, hair and sweat.  
> You are not made out of metaphors, not apologies, not excuses._
> 
> _If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold,  
>  You can let them hold you.  
> All day they practice keeping their bodies upright.  
> Even after all this evolving it still feels unnatural.  
> Still strains the muscles, hold firms the arms and spine.  
> Only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you,  
> Admit they do not have the answers they thought they would by now.  
> Some men will want to hold you like the answer.  
> You are not the answer.  
> You are not the problem.  
> You are not the poem or the punch-line or the riddle or the joke._
> 
> _Woman, if you grow up the type men want to love,  
>  You can let them love you.  
> Being loved is not the same thing as loving.  
> When you fall in love, it is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping.  
> It is realizing you have hands.  
> It is reaching for the tightrope when the crowds have all gone home._
> 
> _Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of women men will hurt.  
>  If he leaves you with a car alarm heart, you learn to sing along.  
> It is hard to stop loving the ocean even after it has left you gasping — "salty."  
> So forgive yourself for the decisions you've made.  
> The ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night and know this:  
> Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours.  
> Let the statues crumble.  
> You have always been the place.  
> You are a woman who can build it yourself.  
> You are born to build._


	14. salt-laced and arched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10k guys. **10k**. we're absolutely gobsmacked.
> 
> as always, ty for all ur comments!!! i know we're slow in responding sometimes BUT we do get there....eventually. we hope this update will satify u - i have been waiting a _very_ long time to write one particular scene and we've had to push it back so many times... 
> 
> i've been really slow about formatting all the art we've recieved but i'll get to work on that this week! we were very lucky to recieve some from [areyousanta](http://areyousanta.tumblr.com/post/175595103153/so-i-spent-yesterday-night-reading-every-chapter) which was such a wonderful surprise! it's formatted at the end of the chapter and if u like it, go send maddy some love on the tumble! 
> 
> (dorianne laux, this close)

The days, then weeks go on without Olivier.

Easier than it should be, Riza adjusts to another walking out the door. Every once in a while, a sad wave of nostalgia washes over her when she sees the significantly vacant living room or looking at the bare wall that once held frames and chic paintings. Even if some called her icy and dull, she had impeccable taste and Riza misses the colors on the wall. These small moments creep up on Riza when she least expects them, during the most inane moments of the day, and it's hard not to feel the loss and how it still stings like an accidental pinch to sensitive skin.

Perhaps she judged Olivier incorrectly, a voice in her head tells her snidely. _Perhaps you chose wrongly_ , a darker, but smaller voice said. Riza can’t fault her former flatmate’s inability to understand her affair, no matter how much or how little it stings. It burns in the hollow parts where their friendship used to be, knowing that this man has a better and more intimate understanding of her as a person than Olivier would ever be capable of or want to be capable of. The sentiment is selfish and she knows this. In other situations, she respected Olivier’s ability to remain steadfast in her convictions.

All this comes to mind on a Friday evening, a quiet one when they are seldomly so for Riza. Earlier she relished at the fact that she could take advantage of the quietude to get lost in her annotated-to-death anthology of Pablo Neruda’s works; to be comfortably situated in her own bed and just take in the evoking prose, and catch up on her laundry she was woefully behind on. The space would do her some good, she reasoned. A _lot_ had happened in the last few weeks and a bit of alone time with her favourite poets and a _Greed_ pizza from Hell’s would do her some good. It’s been a while since she’s had a moment with just her and a book and four walls.

Riza looks at the time, the walls, the fading pages, and realizes … why did she ever come to miss this. When did she grow to enjoy company?

Rebecca had come and gone after her classes, commenting on how rare it was to see her there on a Friday. Riza tried to explain but her friend looked like she was short for time, making a racket with her closet and in the bathroom. Riza could hardly catch where she was going, she’d hardly made mention of it as she was hurrying out of the apartment and then those words were cut off by the slamming on the door. Not that she expected it, but the lack of invitation probably meant that it was a date or something of the sort. That was hours ago and Riza finds herself a little disappointed, but mostly strange, that her phone isn’t blowing up with a play-by-play of the date’s shortcomings or successes. The commentary is a specialty of Rebecca’s humor.

Her friend was right: ordinarily, she wouldn’t be here. Over the course of a few months, Riza has slipped into a routine that she is loathe to have issue with. A bus would take her on a route that went past his neighbourhood, following her afternoon biochem class. Sometimes, she’d make a detour to the supermarket nearby to pick up a few things if a mood struck for something in particular, but more often than not she was content with takeout. It was a nicer environment than the library - she could spread out all the work she needed to do on the coffee table in his lounge and sprawl herself along his couch. The hot chocolate powder that had mysteriously arrived in the pantry one day wasn’t amiss either.

This time, however, her excuse was moot and she couldn’t expect a phone call or exchange of texts to change that either, because tonight he was travelling to Central for a conference where chemistry nerds were converging to relay to each other the latest findings. Roy was not as excited as she expected. In fact, he looked particularly disgruntled by the way he told her about it two weeks ago. He whined how not even professors were spared from homework, or ‘paperwork’ as he referred to it.

Eventually, she pushes away the distractions and enthralled for the millionth by _The Heights of Macchu Picchu_ when her phone lights up and pings on her desk. Mindful of the book in her hands that is practically falling apart, she sets it down carefully, before stretching out to pull on the charging cable. The phone falls into her hand with practiced ease, and Riza can’t help the smile that grows on her face as she sees the name - nickname - emblazoned on her lockscreen.

> **Spanish Inquisition, 7:02pm** I had a very interesting visitor today
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 7:02pm** You didn’t think to warn me?

A chill runs down her spine. She’s trying her best not to jump to conclusions but a familiar sanctimonious smirk appears in her mind’s eye. She _wouldn’t_...would she? Calmly, she responds: 

> **Avecilla, 7:02pm** I would if I knew who to warn you about.

> **Spanish Inquisition, 7:03pm** So you didn’t know. Hmm.
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 7:03pm** Your other flatmate. Not blonde. Bushy black hair. Very opinionated.
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 7:03pm** And loud
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 7:04pm** Came into my office hours in middle of a meeting with another student.

Her relief is short-lived as the reality settles in. Palm meets skin and she smacks her forehead. She loves Rebecca - honestly, truly - but the girl lived in the moment and rarely considered the consequences of her actions in the aftermath. She can’t discern his reaction though, not through text alone. Her thumb hovers over the icon at the top of the app. Surely he would’ve called her if he felt the conversation warranted it. 

> **Avecilla, 7:04pm** becca?
> 
> **Avecilla, 7:04pm** oh fuck
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 7:07pm** ah so, becca’s her name! I wish she would have told me that
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 7:07pm** She said a lot about a lot of things, but not her name
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 7:08pm** tbh I wasn’t really given a chance to say anything
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 7:08pm** Do you know how weird it is to be lectured in my own office

Riza mutters a string of curses under her breath.

She switches messaging windows to Rebecca’s and stares at the blank chat box wondering which side to approach this from. Her fingers rest on the bridge of her nose imagining the scene of a riled up Rebecca busting in through that office door, telling the unsuspecting student to scram and then potentially ripping Roy a new one about who-knows-what with the signature hands-on-hips stance. It’s frustrating, it should be incredibly frustrating. What she had said, the manner in which she barged in, how it’s interpreted - all of it could be her demise but a chuckle bubbles up because... Classic Rebecca.

Unaware that the screen had dimmed, she sees it light up again with a call this time. “Hello?”

“You left me on read?” The other voice on the line greets her with hints of playful tones under that indignant choice of words. He continues smoothly, “Are you starting to think you’re the exception in all of this, _avecilla?”_

She snorts, smiling as she sat up. As far as she can tell he’s not irritated. “No exception to the embarrassment knowing Rebecca did that. If I had known that was even remotely crossing her mind - well, I would have stopped her.”

“Something tells me even if you did know, there’s no much that you could have done from stopping a force of nature like that.” Despite the noise of what she assumes is Central all around him, she can hear the tired smile on him.  “I think you’re very lucky to have such a loyal friend who has terrifyingly specific medical knowledge on how to best remove a penis.”

“She didn’t...” Riza groans and leans back against her pillows, sliding the dog-eared anthology  back from the edge of the bed before she covers her face.

“She did. I was perplexed for most of it, blinking at her as she paced in front of my desk.” Riza let the words sink down with her mortification and then she’s frozen when he says, “Does she do this with all your boyfriends?”

She isn’t sure why it tenses her; maybe its because it's finally given a name, even if it’s only a label, and an unsure, timid smile crosses her face. “Consider yourself special for getting the Rebecca treatment.”

“I consider myself lucky for _other_ reasons, Riza.”

Her demeanor changes with the teasing lilt in his words. A half-smile begins to spring up over her lips, thankful he’s understanding - in whatever capacity - of this. “Care to share with the class?” She says coyly.

“Yes, that no one else heard. Or made any comment about it.” He says sternly and she sinks back into her pillows.

“I don’t know why she thought storming into your office would be a good idea.”

“Well it certainly worked out well enough for you, didn’t it?” Even though he’s making fun of her, she bites her lip at the memory, and the way his voice has dipped now, sultry and inflected with the accent that he was _well_ aware that made her weak in the knees. He’s blatantly flirting with her.

Riza scoffs. “I believe our aims were a little different if we are going to be making comparisons.”

“Ah, so you did come with a goal in mind then.”

“ _Yes_ , sir. I-”

There are stifled chuckles on the other end. He is one of the few people clever enough to _really_ get under her skin, get her riled up.

“If I recall correct, you admitted that I was baited into your office because of your stunt.”

“Mmm, did I now?” he asks, low and throaty.

At least the whiplash from the back and forth keeps her on her toes; she looks at them wiggling even now as she talks to him. “Mhm, I was there.”

He chuckles lightly and she hears someone greet him faintly in the background. “Let me call you back so I can get into this hotel room.”

“Oh, of course.”

They don’t share many phone calls but even from the first day, she’s known his voice was pleasant. _Especially_ when he wants it to be.  His laugh was warm down the line, and inexplicably she finds herself missing him, despite talking to him this morning however briefly.

The phone rings and she greets him with a standard “hello.” When no sound comes from the other end, she checks the screen to make sure the line is connected.

“So…” he starts and it sounds like he plops on a bed. “What are you wearing? _”_

She blinks. “What?”

He enunciates each word. “What - are - you - wearing?”

She sinks down the length of her headboard. “You’re not serious.”

He tuts. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Clothing.”

“You’re no fun, Miss Hawkeye.”

“Maybe it’s because I’d rather have you here to show me what you want.”

“So would I.” There’s a wistful edge to his voice. “Do you have other plans? I was under the impression that you had a date with some laundry and pizza.”

“I _had_ a date,” she emphasises. “Besides... I don’t think I’d be too good at it.”

“Trial and error, right? There’s no pressure to do anything you’re not comfortable with and we can always stop whenever you’d like.”

Likewise, she gets up and locks the door to her bedroom even though she knows Rebecca won’t be home for a while yet - certainly not after that stunt. “What a gentleman.”

“I like to think so.” She can hear his smile. “So...what are you wearing?”

Riza smiles in turn, feeling foolish. It’s such a ridiculous question on top of a ridiculous act. Tightening her grip on her phone, she figures telling him the truth of her rather vanilla pyjamas would probably detract from the mood of… whatever this was. She knows enough about “phone sex” - even in her mind it leaves a weird, tingly feeling - to at least humor him. She sighs into the phone, “It’s warm tonight, so I decided to wear something comfy to bed. Something so I can wiggle under the covers without feeling ...constricted.”

“Shorts?” The voice at the other end sounds surprised and she clearly sees him, in her mind’s eye, leaning in closer with interest and probably a smirk.

Riza bites her lower lip. “Less.”

 _“Oh.”_ He sounds delighted. “Well, if you’re going to have me guess what Riza Hawkeye wears on her days off… the top to her pajamas and her small clothes.”

He knows her too well. With little movement, she slides her underwear down her legs, letting them fall to the floor. She laughs, a little nervously. _“Less.”_

“Aren’t you naughty tonight?”

“I’ve been asked to,” Riza teases and shifts against her pillows. “Now, tell me something.”

_“Yes?”_

She’s unfamiliar with this certain kind of ...adventure. Nonetheless, she’s still willing to try. “How... excited are you?”

“Mhm. Let’s see.” She faintly hears fabric shifting, zippers unzipping, and if she wasn’t listening so intently, she would have missed the light groan. _“Very.”_

She licks her lips, imagining him sitting on the edge of her bed. Her legs cross; as a pleasant surprise, her arousal settles hotly in between them. “Tell me why.”

“You. Your legs. Spread and losing myself between them. Your body on mine.”

“You’re worse than me, _sir.”_ There is a throbbing pulse right at her core in rhythm with the hard thrumming in her chest. It feels warm and slick without having to touch herself, though the temptation to is becoming harder to ignore. “What would you do?” she asks, cradling the phone between her shoulder and her ear. “If you had me there.”

His laugh is _delicious_ \- she closes her eyes as a shiver runs over her bare skin. “Enough about me, _avecilla_. How eager would you be if you were here?”

“I’m hardly-”

_“Try.”_

Leaning back, Riza tries to imagine her own fantasies. “If I was there-” she hears a throaty chuckle, “- I’d get on my knees, relieve you of those pesky trousers...” A daring hand slipps in between her legs and her fingers are glistening when she lifts them back up to the light.

“And?” His voice has become husky, rumbling through his throat.

“I’d take you into my mouth.” She answers automatically, distracted from her slow stroke, playing with herself. It’s true - previously, with other fumblings, she had done her part to make her partner feel good - but with him she is surprised to find herself _enjoying_ the act so thoroughly. Maybe it’s a power thing. The image of him watching her take him into her mouth with hooded eyes and a slack jaw is something she holds close to her heart. _She_ does that to him.

Nobody else.

It takes him a moment to respond and when he does, his words are marked with a smidgen of strain. “Fast or slow?”

She doesn’t realize until this moment that her eyes have fallen shut, her head thrown back. “Slow at first, tasting you, feeling how hard you are in my mouth and growing harder with my tongue.”

“ _At first?”_ Roy asks curiously. “You’d want me to make you go faster, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I do-” she admits, gasping with the building pleasure of using two fingers to stimulate her clit.

“Grabbing you by your hair to so you can feel me go deeper.”

 _“Yes…”_ His fingers coiled in her hair, his cock around her lips getting wetter each time she retook him in her mouth, the aching between her thighs increasing with every second -

_“Yes, what?”_

“Yes, sir.” Riza thought a laugh would leave her, instead she moans into the phone, feeling a warmth flush her skin pink. She’s wet enough to hear it, rubbing herself. She settles on the bed properly now, lying flat with the phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear. Gasping lightly, Riza slides a finger, then two inside herself as her other hand grabs her own breast, ghosting over the tip of her sensitive nipple.

“And where would you like me to fuck you?”

“Take me however you’d like me.” The truth is she can’t really think. She’s lost in her own fantasies. Against the wall with her legs over his hip; from behind where he could dig his nails into her as they picked up the pace; on top of him where she could feel him reaching depths that had her voice filling the room - it didn’t matter. There is an aching in her that her fingers cannot fulfill. He was too far away. She wants him here, with her and her shitty second-hand bed and the evidence is soaking her digits to her knuckles.

His groan reverberates through the phone lines and into her ear and she can almost feel the hot breath in her ear and his familiar scent.

She breathes in as hoping his phantom scent would materialize just for her.  She begins, “I’m y-”

Her bedroom door opens.

 _“Rebecca!”_ she screeches. Mortified, she drops her phone, urging her roommate to get out. She can only imagine his confused expression as she swears black and blue and Rebecca is cackling madly in the background. She covers herself with her blanket, chasing her out and slams the door behind her. There’s a chuckle wedged in between the _“I’m sorry!”_ Rebecca shouts from the other side of the door.

Her phone is still lit up, the call remaining in progress as she approaches her bed. “Roy..?” she breathes after the entire debacle. Paper crinkles beneath her feet. She quickly pulls them back and hisses under her breath.

“I’m here,” he responds after a moment and he sounds a little spent. “Did we have unfortunate timing again?”

She sighs as she kneels down, her blanket pooling around her feet. “What’s the matter?” he presses.

Riza groans as she sees the scattered pages across her room. The hardcover of her anthology lies face down, open. The spine of it must’ve hit the floor first. She crouches though her legs shake and picks up the annotated papers. “It’s nothing.”

Other than the shifting of someone on a bed, there’s silence on the other end until he speaks again. “It doesn’t sound like nothing, _avecilla.”_

She nestles the phone in between her ear and shoulder as she collects the remnants of the book in earnest. “A book I was reading before you called fell off the bed and the pages came apart.”

“You certainly haven’t shown me that kind of vigor to make a book fall apart.”

She huffs into the phone, hoping her flattened brow expression would be received telepathically. “It was old.”

“I’m not that old.”

“The _book._ ”

She can hear him stifle a chuckle, but he fails by snickering anyway. It makes her smile too. “Now I see. In any case, I’m sorry to hear that. Which book was it?”

Riza flips the cover as if she didn’t already know. “An old poetry book I bought when I was younger. Neruda.”

“Ah, that’s unfortunate.”

“What’s unfortunate is that I was… almost getting into it,” she admits, slipping on a different pair of underwear.

She can just imagine the disappointed expression on his face. “That’s even more unfortunate. But there’ll be other times if the moment is ruined.”

Again, she smiles because of his understanding, despite her embarrassment and she’ll admit to herself that she’s little forlorn over missing the opportunity to hear him reach an orgasm _right_ in her ear. “I think for right now it is. I need to clean up this mess and then there’s my other date that needs tending to.”  

“Laundry isn’t _that_ necessary, is it? By all means, walk around naked if you’d like. I certainly won’t protest.”

Riza grins, holding back the laughter. She manages to sternly volley back, “One of us has to remain civilized.”

He scoffs. “I’m hurt.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Call me back once you’re done?”

Genuinely and warmly this time, she smiles. “If you behave.”

“So no dick pics?”

It takes a lot of willpower not to snort audibly. “Surprise me, _sir.”_

* * *

With his return, she realizes only a few weeks remain before classes end officially. Riza’s always taken initiative for her assignments with diligence, but there’s always the influx of assignments at the end of the term, projects to wrap up, or reports to finalize. Still aiding him when she can in the evenings, her free time becomes increasingly limited.

There’s a new, _long_ list of journals and books that Roy requires for his research that they read and eventually determine the value of this information. On top of this already tedious work, she offers to help grade the essays from the two 100-level courses he teaches in addition to her Chemical Literature class.

It’s boring, menial and uninspiring work: the amount of grammatical, spelling and formatting errors has Riza throwing her pencil away from her in frustration on more than one occasion. The _content_ of said work is of an even lesser quality. It aggravates Riza when it’s obvious to her that some these students don’t give a flying fuck about their education. Or they do, but they have a shit way of showing it.

Some dark part of her forms from this trial and she takes joy tearing into the worst of the essays via text messages to him. In turn, he responds with the excuses and the pleas for extensions or redacted frantic emails that come in once students factor in the weight of the participation grade.

> **Spanish Inquisition, 11:53pm** 3 years
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 11:53pm** 3 years and they still ignore the bolded text
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 11:53pm** It’s in caps you know.
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 11:53pm** PARTICIPATION GRADE: 35%
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 11:54pm** It’s almost like they forget that in order to participate they have to attend class.
> 
> **Avecilla, 11:57pm** Strike them down
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 11:58pm** HA
> 
> **Avecilla, 11:58pm** I mean
> 
> **Avecilla, 11:58pm** How cruel are you going to be?
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 11:59pm** Most will get a B or similar
> 
> **Spanish Inquisition, 11:59pm** Not enough for them to storm to the dean and complain i’m unfair, but maybe enough to encourage them to maybe try next time

The weeks fly by because of this and she can only think of one time in the last few weeks where they’ve actually managed to do _more_ than just kiss. Riza isn’t one to keep tallies, but it was after a late night of simultaneously grading, reading and working on her final assignments. She was tired. She knew he was too, and while she could only blame herself for suggesting it, it didn’t make her any less frustrated when he drifts to sleep with his dick in her mouth. Rebecca harbored no sympathy for her either. She merely texts _‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA’_ and then sends far too many tongue-in-cheek gifs implying Riza was “thirsty.”

Even if she was, Riza muted her best friend and finished herself off, but not before almost succumbing to sleep once or twice.

Every time after that, when they managed to have more coffee or sleep in, they were _rudely_ interrupted in some other way. As if it were sacrilege he had taken that one time for granted, he jested once, and it soon became laughable what the universe kept throwing at them.

The workload was understandable, forgivable, and inevitably out of their control. Then, it was constant miscalculations of how little time they had: either she had a class or he had one to teach or office hours, or _I’m about to crash and we both know how the last time worked out_. It was driving her up the walls - and not in the ways she’d preferred.

They reach a point of recklessness. They take advantage of his empty office with a locked door on the final days after class. He cancels his office hours that morning after her assurances that her assignments were up to par and she could afford the distraction. Riza finds herself pleasantly nestled between euphoria and giddiness from the frantic way they paw at each other’s clothes. Or it’s the way she sat on the edge of his desk and the cool air tickled in the moist heat in between her legs. Or the little tinge of pride from cancelling his office hours just for _her._ Or perhaps a combination of it all. Irresponsible, to be sure, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t flattered how much he desired her, as if it were anything to question. She thinks, in foolish desperation, that the odds are in their favour this time.

She’s wet and ready from his fingers playing with her as they kiss, bringing him closer with her legs as her soft moans are muffled by his lips. Her hands reach for the buckle of his belt and she chuckles lightly when she detours further south to palm the erection under the cloth of his pants. _Let’s free it_ , she thought then and refocused on the buckle, because she is fed up with all this teasing and none of the fingering. He’s given her a light orgasm already - the kind that leaves her wanting, that she only needed to bite down on her lip for - but it’s made her insatiable now. There’s just something so _good_ about having him in her, and as much as she loves his fingers and dexterity, they cannot mimic the stretch and feeling of _fullness_ he alone provides.  “I want you,” she murmurs under his lips, drunk from her lust, as she unbuckled the belt with practiced fingers.

Loud and obnoxious, an alarm suddenly blares. Sound fills the room and it’s like a bucket of cold water over her; it takes them both a moment to recenter themselves back to earth. Her fingers uncurl from his pants and inwardly she mourns the loss of contact. The urge to keep going is strong; after all, when are fire alarms set off for a _legitimate_ reasons anyway? It’s an irrational thought and Riza can hardly hear anything else. They fix themselves up hastily and exit the building; everybody they pass seemingly none the wiser. She lets herself drift away from him - a few metres and several people between them when they reach the evacuation point, reminding herself that there are _other people_ here and this close to the end of classes is no excuse to relax her standards. She’s just... _frustrated_ . A voice that sounds a lot like Rebecca’s teases that she’s actually just _horny_.

If she’s honest, she hates the shame that trickles down her spine at this unadulterated want. In a different time, with a less conservative upbringing to influence her choices, she wouldn’t find this shame and guilt currently she’s currently wrestling with. She would be more like Rebecca or even Olivier where it’s not on her radar, coming and going as she pleases. But if her circumstances were different, she probably wouldn’t even be here, studying for a Bachelor of Science as a means to connect with her absentee father.

Riza miraculously catches his eyes as the crowd slowly shuffles further back on the field as more people spill out of the Joseph Hunter Science Building. He mouths something to her, but her lipreading is terrible and she shrugs her shoulders, lifting up her phone to their field of vision.

> **Spanish Inquisition, 10:23am** 10 minutes leaves enough time to return the favor of the other night.

The fire alarm had killed most of their time before her next class, but she forgoes punctuality in favor of _four_ minutes of feeling his hair in between her fingers while his lips kiss in between her legs. In the end, her tardiness was excused.

Finally - _finally,_ she thinks they’ve managed a miracle. Her final assignments are as ready as they’ll ever be, waiting for one final read-over before submission, and his last block of essays have been graded and handed back to their respective classes. Draped over him in the same chair in his apartment study where they first fucked, she’s allowing herself to celebrate as she cups his jaw with her hands, her tongue sliding against his pleasantly.

He hardens underneath her and she’s none too shy about unbuttoning his shirt as he has done for her. Pushed down to her elbows, the shirt is rid of her and it’s a painful few seconds when she pulls away to be free of it properly. He looks _sinfully_ decadent beneath her, a lazy smirk growing on his face as one hand deliberately hooks a finger under her bra strap, tugging it down. Her lingerie choices have been adventurous in recent weeks - the pastel blue lacy number she’s currently wearing is definitely not designed for any exercise more taxing than walking, and judging by the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, Riza knows with certainty that she’s found a keeper.

His fingers brush over her nipples, and she briefly shuts her eyes as he pinches before pulling the fabric down and draws her close, tongue soothing the puckered skin. Her hands curl into his hair, scratching at his scalp and Riza’s uncaring of the breathy moans leaving her - this is _divine,_ and the wait has certainly been worth it.

Roy’s hands drift down and slide under her skirt, fingers gliding over the sensitive skin on the inside of her thighs, leaving tingling sensations in its wake. He is only mere inches from her arousal and a great deal of willpower goes into preventing herself from pushing his hand forward.

He takes off his glasses and she sets them behind her on the large desk. Her hands go through his hair as he cups her breast and brings her other nipple into his mouth, using his tongue to tease the tip and even nip at it gently with his teeth. His other hand clutches at her ass to bring her closer as if the distance they have was remotely unbearable. Riza gasps into his hair, grinding her hips over his lap, and his scent is mixed with sweat. It’s a dangerous, addicting blend, and she shudders in his lap as his fingers stroke across her bare skin. He releases her nipple slowly from between his teeth before shifting back to her other one and she remembers a joke he said about her breasts deserving equal treatment.

And then, in the middle of this _achingly wonderful_ treatment - his ringtone goes off.

Roy groans for all the wrong reasons, throwing his head back. He keeps them steady as he awkwardly reaches his back pocket for his phone. “Pfft, it’s just Hughes,” he mutters after a concerted effort and sets the cell down on the chair of the arm. Softer and locked on her other unattended breast, he mumbles with a mouth full of her, “He can leave a message.”

Riza doesn’t remember which one is Hughes and she’s not given much time to think about it when his mouth returns to her breast and his hand squeezes, massages, tweaks at the other. She’s at the point of moaning out _if you say so_ when the vibrations and standard tune rings out again.

He stops altogether and after a few seconds, it dies to a stop only to start up again. His attention is needed again, and she’s never felt quite as pissed off at an inanimate object as she does right now. Roy growls and sits back, picking up the phone. “Let me just see what he wants.”

She nods wordlessly and he starts the conversation, going beyond standard small talk after a few moments. She can hear the other man talking; an excitable person who gets even more excited when he talks about certain topics. She can’t discern what they’re talking about exactly, but Roy gives the occasional _mhm_ and _yeah_ when it’s warranted.  

Riza figures she can go wait for him in the bedroom. Perhaps sprawled out with a bright, blinking sign that says ‘insert here’ in between her legs should he fail to see how much she wanted him that afternoon; she blames Rebecca’s influence for that kind of ridiculous humor. Riza starts to climb off him and stops when she’s kept in place from his hand gripping the fabric of her skirt. He wants her to _stay_ there? She frowns and points at the phone. His brows furrow and he shakes his head, putting a finger over his mouth, telling her to be quiet.

Well, she can go be quiet in the other room. She can respect his privacy. It’s not a big deal; they had the entire evening to themselves. Well, nearly - but she’d be damned if she’d let any other distractions interrupt them after this call. She deserves to be fucked thoroughly.

Roy is apparently impatient, however. The hand holding the finger over his mouth flattens over her thigh and coasts up to the edge of her skirt. He thumbs the skin there, teasing the idea that he could touch her in the middle of this conversation. She looks at him knowingly when he crosses underneath the folds of her skirt, yet he continues on talking as though nothing has happened. He caresses the skin inside her thighs as he talks about something or the other: Riza isn’t concentrating on that, instead absorbed with the sensation of his fingers drifting higher and higher. She waits patiently, but his touch somehow makes her hotter, wetter. A devious finger lightly ghosts over the linen of her damp underwear and he says a perfectly timed “Oh?” towards the caller and to her. Riza blushes and grabs at his wrist.

She can sit up, she can leave the room, she knows that he’d respect that, but she doesn’t want to. She realizes there’s a morbid curiosity as to how and why he does things and she always wants to know. This is moment is one of them. It’s why she doesn’t stop him when he tugs aside the cloth of her underwear and wets his fingers with what’s in between her lips. Her frown dissipates and she gasps as if she’s been starved from his touch, like it’s an electrifying drug she’s been having withdrawals from. The sensations of his fingers rubbing against her clit is familiar and unknown, and she lets her head fall back, relishing in the feeling and clawing lightly at the armchair.

His fingers leave her and he cleans them off with his mouth before gesturing her to be quiet with a finger over his mouth again. She thinks she can hear his friend say “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he responds, looking directly at her with a devious glint in his eyes. “Just eating. Go on.”

A warm tingle shoots down her spine and spreads across her abdomen down to her groin. She’s been enraptured by a lunatic and she’s allowed it to happen, even now when he aims to touch her again.  With a bite to her knuckle, she grasps at his loosened shirt when his fingers return to remind her how obnoxiously needy she has become. Giving into this notion, she moves to hover over his lap for shameless access. He bites a bottom lip at this, staring her from the wrinkled mess of her skirt to her flushed, knuckle-biting face. She’s wet enough that an easy orgasm is on the horizon from the slow, rubbing stimulation on her clit. Riza makes the mistake of thinking he’ll stop there, because then one finger enters her and then another. Her reaction is unexpected, even to her. She falls back to his lap and bites the fleshy side of her palm to quell the noises. Her spread legs allow him to finger her, so he does. _Slowly_. In and out, and the noises would make her die of mortification if she weren’t enjoying every satisfyingly building moment of this pleasure. His palm is hitting her stimulated clit with each stroke and she’s grasping at his shirt once more, trying to salvage what solid ground she can keep as the pleasure rises within her..

He slows down when she’s at the precipice of a delicious orgasm that she even licks her lips, and decides to become an active participant in his phone call. But it’s not in English. He shifts to Spanish while his hand moves against her more patiently. She tries to catch her breath from holding it but it’s impossible not to listen to the way he’s talking. It’s fascinating how melodic a different language sounds and how much of a turn on it is for her. He speaks this language faster. His _R’s_ roll off his tongue and somehow there’s more sensuality in his voice. It’s mesmerizing.

His attention turns back to her when moments ago he was staring at some place off to the side. He looks to her hips and she doesn’t even realize - until he does - how subtly she was moving them. Roy pauses, eyebrows furrowed before a downright _hungry_ grin forms on his face, and his fingers begin to move once more.

 _“Estoy eschuchando,”_ he answers the person on the other line, his diction shifting into a huskier tone, each syllable pronounced lower and slower. She thought it was bad enough when he spoke it casually, but when he did it _deliberately?_ She can only handle so much stimuli, and by this point she’s uncaring of how shameless she’s acting, how she’s become putty in his hands. She’s drunk on this orgasm she can feel barrelling towards her, on the lust and desire she feels for him. She’s never felt it quite like this before - this _want_ that feels more like a _need_ with every passing second. She wants to take the phone and hang it up for him, but she opts for pulling at the collar of his partially unbuttoned shirt and biting the taut muscle at the meeting of his neck and shoulder. He maintains that paced fingering in and out of her. She knows she’s tightening around his fingers because of the paced movement.

With his deliberate words at her ear, his fingers inside her, and the smell of his bare skin, she climaxes against him, taking deep breaths and every measure to stifle the moans and groans. Her head rests over his shoulder, hot breath hitting his neck. She can see him swallowing and doesn’t know why she didn’t think to give him the same torturing she just endured.

He’s hard. She can feel it and see it in this light. She palms it, clutches it, strokes it, and he swallows thickly again. He sounds strained when he cuts off the caller and abruptly says, “I’ll have to call you back.” Roy ends the call and the phone is tossed to the wayside as his fingers slide out of her.

She grabs his cock harder and he surprises her by standing up, supporting her by her underside until she’s laid on his desk directly behind her, over the papers she had spent last week meticulously highlighting. She lifts her hips to help with the removal of her own underwear. As he works with his own pants she tries to salvage what’s underneath her to little success. Distracted by her menial task, she gasps, surprised, when her wrists are manacled and set at either side of her head. Her breathing is heavy, his too. The tip of him nudges at her entrance and she moves against it, towards it just for the stretch a little bit more of him inside her.

“A little bird tells me you have a secret.”

Riza smiles coyly after a futile attempt to use her legs to bring him forward. “Hardly a secret if you know about it,” she manages, half-heartedly trying to move her arms. He doesn’t budge an inch, his smile dark and promising. She supposes at this point nothing should really surprise her when it comes to her newfound appreciation for less-than-vanilla sex, but there’s just something so inherently _sexy_ about being pinned down by him, even as simply as she is right now. The temporary loss of control is so easy to lose herself in.

Roy observes her hungrily. “A kink then.”

The initial thrust makes her gasp sharply and he groans pleasantly. Her limbs dangle off the side as he fucks her over his desk. Where he was well-paced before, he is erratic now, but he won’t find complaint from her in that regard. She has no means of quieting herself with her hands where they are, and biting down at her teeth proves inefficient when each of his thrusts touch places she’s been yearning for weeks, when the stretch she’s been hungry for is finally given to her. Her eyes are shut, mouth open, body subject to this carnal movement. She doesn’t think to see beyond her eyes for the time being, what expressions his face is making or anything that will  take her away from the here and now of the feelings of the sex. She feels selfish for relishing in this, but _fuck_ , it’s been a long time coming and this sex proves it.

He lets go of her wrists and brings her toward him to hang just a little more over the desk by way of her legs.  She reaches over her head at the other end of the desk, moaning into the inside of her arm, clutching the edge as if it were her salvation from plunging into the deep.

Her eyes open suddenly when he thumbs her clit. She looks at him and there’s a wolfish grin on his face, enjoying her reactions in the ways she squirms, moans, mewls, and tightens. Her fingernails scratch at the desk for purchase, for breath, but he continues with sweat beading his brow until he grunts a little louder and his final thrusts hit deeper as he cums inside her.

Her own orgasm follows shortly after, and she’s left quivering on the desk, well aware of the sight she is before him. She can feel his seed leaking out of her as her pulls out, and automatically her fingers move to catch it - like _hell_ was she going to completely debase the paperwork that was crumpled underneath her. He utters a strange, strained grunt, running a hand through his hair roughly.

“I’ve _told_ you, you can’t just do that with no warning.”

“Oh?” Her hand rises back up to her mouth and she wets her lower lip in anticipation. “Do _this?”_ Her tongue darts out to lap at the milky, viscous fluid and while the taste is not _delightful,_ the reaction that he has most certainly is. She barely has time to repeat her actions before his hand closes firmly over her own, and pulling her up to a sitting position at the edge of his desk.

 _“No,”_ he tells her firmly, though the matching smile on his lips belies any _real_ annoyance. “If you’re going to be the death of me I’d at least like to get my money’s worth.” The kiss he drops on her forehead is soft. “I’ll get you a washcloth,” he says, fixing up his trousers loosely. The faint trail of hair sticks out against his lower abdomen like a beacon and Riza swallows the urge to coax him back for another round.

She adjusts the straps of her bra back up on her shoulders and nicks his discarded shirt from the ground. Her skirt is a crumpled, lost cause, and Riza makes a mental note to pick up an iron at some point this weekend - she hadn’t noticed it immediately, but of the many appliances Olivier had taken with her, the iron was the one she had relied on the most. Rebecca had bitched endlessly about the mini espresso machine that had also disappeared, though it had quickly been replaced.

She rolls up the sleeves of his shirt as she walks down the hallway towards the kitchen, humming under her breath. _Roy would probably appreciate a cup of coffee,_ she thinks, focusing on doing the buttons up correctly as she passes by the island countertop and the man sitting there.

She stills, before turning to make sure she’s seeing right. The man looks up from the plate in front of him and raises his mug in greeting, the lowlights from the kitchen reflecting strangely on his glasses.

“You kids had fun?” he asks, before taking a sip. His tone is light, breezy, and he gestures to the plate in front of him when she doesn’t respond. “You’re probably hungry after that, uh-” he breaks off laughing, ducking his head “-after that workout. My wife made a quiche - you should have some, it is the _best_ in the world, and I’m not biased.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hell's pizza is a brand here in nz, that started up with a line of 7 pizzas named after the 7 deadly sins. i thought it would be a nice touch to the series considering we can't really include the True Nature of the homunculi in this AU haha! a greed pizza is basically a double hawaiian and it's delicious
> 
> -
> 
> _In the room where we lie,  
>  light stains the drawn shades yellow.  
> We sweat and pull at each other, climb  
> with our fingers the slippery ladders of rib.  
> Wherever our bodies touch, the flesh  
> comes alive. Head and need, like invisible  
> animals, gnaw at my breast, the soft  
> insides of your thighs. What I want  
> I simply reach out and take, no delicacy now,  
> the dark human bread I eat handful  
> by greedy handful. Eyes fingers, mouths,  
> sweet leeches of desire. Crazy woman,  
> her brain full of bees, see how her palms curl  
> into fists and beat the pillow senseless.  
> And when my body finally gives in to it  
> then pulls itself away, salt-laced  
> and arched with its final ache, I am  
> so grateful I would give you anything, anything.  
> If I loved you, being this close would kill me._


	15. i’ll continue to go down kicking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while, sorry! lots of stuff has happened but here we are, with a brand new chapter. we really hope you guys will enjoy it <3
> 
> (rebecca morgan frank, the moon’s magnetic field once came from an asteroid)

As far as friendships go, Maes Hughes is easily Roy Mustang’s oldest to date. He’s had acquaintances and colleagues - some that left and some that went, but none stuck by Roy harder than a tick on a toe than Maes Hughes. Inseparable through college, closely associated in the military, Maes was Roy’s right hand man during it all. In turn, Roy was his best man for his wedding, was a no-brainer for being chosen as Elicia’s godfather.

Even though their work in the military had led them in different ways - Maes in intelligence, and Roy in research and development - it hadn’t stopped them from being closely involved in the other’s work. And it was because of that close involvement, that Roy found himself even in a position to be grateful for being alive. After the  _ Incident _ , it took a lot to deal with the deaths of those who working with him because of his research and where Greta was absent, Maes was there, quietly supporting, with no passing judgments. 

He trusted Maes to see a more human perspective to things, that not everything was black or white. He’d say sage things like  _ ‘look at the forest for the trees’ _ or something like that. That ‘ _ the path of doing good isn’t always clean, and now you know the difference’ _ .

Even with all that, Roy isn’t sure if he could trust him with this, because  _ this _ was a bit more delicate.  _ This _ was a bit more than just black and white or grey.  _ This _ fell in the territory of  _ ‘what the  _ **_fuck_ ** _ do you think you are doing’ _ and the look Maes gives him when he emerges from the study cannot be construed as anything but.

His eyes take in the full picture before him: his best friend has made himself  _ mightily _ at home. Roy quickly blurts out, “Maes what are you doing here?” He chokes a little on his words and he’d find it incredibly amusing and uncanny about this being another time they’ve been caught. But there’s no humour in this moment, only increasingly awkward silence. It’s uniquely alarming because, even with all of the years knowing Maes, Roy simply doesn’t know how he’ll react to this. He swallows down the smile that threatens to appear - right now, he can’t rely on what he  _ knows _ . Best friend or not, Maes Hughes has his limits and Roy is careful to be mindful of them.

Maes’ eyes flick over to Riza, standing next to Roy, and she hasn’t said a word. She’s expressionless, but her eyes are a bit wider than usual and it’s glaringly obvious how tensely she holds herself. “Well,” Maes starts, grinning as he slowly shifts his eyes back to Roy, just as he cleans a piece of food off his fork. “ _ Someone _ rudely hung up on me...” 

“Last I checked, that wasn’t a crime. But breaking and entering is…” His eyes fall to the fork hanging limply in his friend’s hand. “Are you eating my  _ quiche?” _

Hughes snorts, setting down his mug. “You eat out your girlfriend, I eat my wife’s quiche. It’s all about preference and mood.”

“ _ Hijo de tu madre...  _ Gracia made that for  _ me.” _

Maes nearly chokes on his bite. “You kiss a pretty girl like that with that mouth of yours?.” He points to Riza with the end of his fork and continues munching on Roy’s leftovers. “What would Chris say?”

Roy deflates, sighing deeply. Insofar as he can deduce from the scene in front of him, his best friend is more curious than anything else, and he’ll take all the good signs he can get right now. “Riza, this is Maes Hughes.”

“I’m his ex-husband-”

_ “Hughes _ is an old friend,” Roy interjects strongly, glaring daggers at the uninvited guest. Maes merely winks and puts down his cutlery.  

_ “Ri-za,” _ he says, elongating the vowels in a singsong way like he’s tasting the name in his mouth or the savouring the remnants of the quiche. Maes wipes his mouth and hands on a paper towel and rounds the corner with an extended hand. He stops, before looking back at Roy, and pivots back slowly towards Riza. “The ...student?” 

Her eyes narrow and she gives him something close to a glare, but much too benign to be considered one. It’s a subtle change in her expression, the slight tightening to her jaw and the smile that doesn’t grow to her eyes. She takes his hand regardless. “In a manner of speaking.” 

“Ho ho, she’s a sharp one.” He lets go and saunters back behind the island. “Undergrad? Masters? PhD?” 

“Maes-” Roy says sternly and asks again.  _ “Why _ are you in my house?” 

Maes stares at him incredulously. “I feel like there are other matters worth talking about. Elephants in the room, perhaps?”

Riza finally moves more than he has seen her manage in the last couple of minutes, looking away and firmly announcing, “I think I should go.” 

“Riza, wait - no-” Roy tries to catch her arm, but she’s quick and halfway to the study already. He shoots a look at Maes that says  _ ‘don’t move’ _ and the returned shrug at least distracts him somewhat from the mounting fear in his heart. It was far too foolish of him to think that his absences would not be noted.

In hindsight, it was straight up stupidity to think that his friends and family would just patiently wait, rather than take matters into their own hands when he pulled himself back from their lives - partially because his actual  _ workload _ had increased, but also because of this new part of his life. Roy doesn’t want to imagine the shitshow that could’ve happened if it was his mother waiting, patiently waiting with eyes as sharp as knives, but he can’t cast off the feeling Maes can be just as deadly if given enough motive. 

Like before, she’s stuffing her belongs in her bag; it’s not a far leap to guess that she’s scared - and justly so. She doesn’t respond to her name as he urges her to stop. He stalls her hand to stop it from shoving in yet  _ another  _ poetry collection. “Riza - he isn’t like Olivier.” 

She stops, and grips the fabric of her duffle bag tightly. Her hands are trembling, knuckles blanched white with how tightly she holds herself. “This is too much,” Riza manages. “I don’t know who this man is, if he can be trusted -” 

“He’s my  _ friend.”  _

“And I thought Olivier was  _ my  _ friend and look how that turned out,” she counters sourly, leaning back against the side of the armchair. “The more people who know about this, the more likely we’ll get found out and then it’s downhill from there.”

He cuts her off before she can speak truths that hit a little too close for comfort. “You’re just realizing this now? And please, Riza - the blame for this will always fall more harshly on me than you for this, and it absolutely should.” 

Riza scoffs, putting fingers on her temples and closing her eyes. “Like that even matters-”

“It does,” he tells her firmly, cupping her jaw and coaxing her to look at him properly.

“I meant... it won’t matter who gets the brunt of the consequences, we’ll both still have to pay in one way or another. We aren’t thinking clearly and…” she trails off in thought. She’s scared - impossibly,  _ impossibly  _ scared; he sees it clear as day in her eyes, hears it in the way her voice hitches in her throat. Roy realises that she has to know that he is too, but not because of the man waiting in his kitchen. This whole situation that they’ve found themselves in -  _ none  _ of it is ideal but the bed has been made and now they must lie in it. 

She deserves that much, at least.

“We didn’t get through the entire semester just to end up here. I took off and left you to handle her... and in a way I trusted you to handle that, so let me handle this, please.” His thumbs rub over her cheekbones slowly. “Maes is my oldest friend. He’s been with me through damn near everything. He will want to understand.”

After a moment, she concedes and lets her shoulders drop. She turns her head and kisses his palm softly. “I still don’t think I should be here,” she murmurs.

“No one is asking you to leave, but I understand if you feel the need to.” 

“Thank you.” She draws near, slipping her arms around his neck. He pulls her closer, arms settling around her waist. He feels her inhale and exhale slowly, nails dragging absentmindedly along his shoulders. “Do you mind if I shower before I go?” she asks, voice small and muffled against his skin.

Roy smiles, shakes his head, and kisses her hair. “No, take as long as you need.” He presses another kiss close to her temple, drawing back. “I’ll be outside.” 

Maes perks up as Roy re-enters the kitchen, grabbing his own mug and placing it under the nozzle of the coffee maker. Coyly he offers, “Trouble in paradise?” 

Roy takes five seconds to exhale in an attempt to control his temper. He changes tact. “How did you get in?”

Maes points again with his fork to the spare key glinting against the island top. “You really need to find a better place to hide that. If I can find it in three minutes, burglars will find it in five.”

Roy takes a sip of coffee, mindful of the temperature. “You’re not the first person to point that out. There’s nothing worth nicking here, unless there’s a black market for organic chemistry books.”

_ “People _ are an entirely different matter.”

“I’m sure I could fend off a would-be burglar.”

Maes grimaces, shaking his head. “I know  _ you  _ can. But could she?” His head jerks towards the hallway. “You’d be facing a whole set of questions yourself if it was reported to the authorities.  _ Student discovered in lecturer’s apartment after a botched B&E.”  _ His voice takes on that high-pitched, nasally cadence that Roy hates; he hates the unsettling truth that lingers in his words.

_ Yet _ . He had relied too much on the supposed safety of houses - and been proven wrong two times too many. At this rate the library or even his office was a statistically safer place to rendezvous.

“You have no proof that she’s my student,” he replies loftily. This time, Maes laughs loudly, openly.

“And I know you well enough to know you will  _ never  _ be a homewrecker, no matter how pretty a girl might be. You’re too honourable.” He takes another bite of quiche. “Besides, you won me a month without cow tongue tacos, so it’s all worked out.”

Roy chokes on his coffee. “You  _ bet _ on me?”

Maes nods, stabbing at the quiche some more. “Gracia didn’t think you’d become  _ that _ depraved. She was convinced it was just someone who we weren’t familiar with-” he pauses, frowning in concentration, “-no, me being right trumps hers because I was more specific. You can back me up on this tonight.”

Roy knows he’s walking into a trap, but he asks anyway. “Tonight?”

“Hah! Good one. What present did you get her anyway - I promised her a pony and a Mustang is technically  _ better, _ so-” Maes’ head turns and Roy isn’t quick enough to wipe the confused expression off his face.

“Don’t tell me you  _ forgot?” _

_ Oh shit.  _ He scrambles to come up with an excuse but nothing is coming to the forefront of his mind - between his deadlines, his work and the messy landscape that was his and Riza’s relationship...it had completely slipped his mind that this weekend was his goddaughter’s third birthday. He had agreed he’d adjust his schedule to make an appearance… which had been buried in a hundred other emails in his personal inbox about his sister’s pregnancy. 

The fork is pointed at him, jabbing forward accusingly. “You  _ did! _ You  _ did  _ forget!”

“Maes...”

“She’s your  _ goddaughter _ for fucks sake!”

“Sorry.” Roy glares at his friend and then eases back while rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been busy, okay? End of trimester is always shit.”

“But you have enough time to fuck your student still, I see how it is.” Maes stops himself, shaking his head vehemently. “No,  _ no. _ Not the main reason I was so insistent on driving you back home. You gotta help me understand, or I’m not gonna be any better than some old Tom, Dick or Harry off the street when it comes to you two. Believe me when I say I  _ want _ to be on your team, Roy.”

There’s silence as Roy fiddles with the handle of his mug.

“I’m waiting.” Maes sets down his fork, pushing the plate of quiche away.

“It’s...hard to explain. And it doesn’t exactly help that you arrived like this.”

“How was I meant to? I fucking  _ called  _ you man, that should’ve been more than enough warning to put it in your pants. Should have expected less.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” The truth of Maes’ words sting a little too sharply. “One of her flatmates discovered us in a similar position…” he sighs, moving around the kitchen island and takes the other seat. “It didn’t end so well.”

Maes frowns. “They sound like a pleasant person.”

Roy laughs bitterly. “She had her reasons. I can’t say I blame her, but that doesn’t exactly endear me to her either. Apparently Riza’s explanations fell on deaf ears.”

“And what explanation is that? From where I’m standing it just looks like cradle-robbing.”

Roy bites his tongue and counts to five before responding. “She’s legal, Maes, before you get any ideas.”

_ “How _ legal?”

“Twenty.”

Maes whistles lowly. “And she’s your student.”

“Give it another month and then she won’t be.” It’s hard not to let the petulant tone slip through - but this isn’t the time nor the space to be dramatic, not with the uncharacteristically somber attitude of his best friend. 

As if on cue, a door shuts and Riza darts from the hallway towards the door. 

Roy starts to say her name but Maes uses a voice specifically reserved for when he’s parenting Elicia. “For his sake, I need to know something.” It’s in a timbre that isn’t at the volume for yelling but it still reverberates throughout the apartment, dripping in assumed authority. “If you walk out of this apartment, then this secret will walk out there with you - I can promise you that.” 

She stills and Roy’s jaw drops. “ _ Hughes-!” _

Riza pivots on her feet, displeasure more than evident across her face. There are still wet tendrils of hair making wet spots on her shirt. 

“Good, I got your attention.” Maes nods his head expectantly over towards the couch. “Now, sit.” 

“What?” Roy manages, quickly rounding the kitchen island, coffee long forgotten. “What’re you-”

_ “Both _ of you.” He emphasises, prodding Roy’s side none-too-kindly. “I need to talk to you both.” 

Riza’s eyes flick to him, and he’s quick to realise what she’s asking. He nods shortly, pushing away his friend’s incessant fingers, all but collapsing back into the couch. Riza arranges herself neatly against him, legs curled up under her. The hand that had stretched out along the top of the couch drifts to her damp hair, and he pulls it back over her shoulder, carefully working through the knots.

Maes watches the two of them with a knowing smirk, before dragging the armchair to face them properly over the coffee table. “Much obliged sweetheart,” he begins, shrugging off his jacket. “The sooner we deal with this, the sooner I can be out of your hair.” He pauses here, a wry smile exposing his teeth. “I guess Roy is another matter entirely-”

“I swear to  _ god _ if you’re only gonna joke about-”

He laughs loudly, hands raised in surrender. “Okay,  _ okay _ , message received. Only serious talk from here on out.” In a matter of seconds the smile has been wiped from his face and Roy finds himself face-to-face with the Maes Hughes of yesteryears, all analytical guile and shrewd cunning. It’s been years since he’s had to deal with a line of questioning that will be as thorough as what his best friend is capable of - hell, even his  _ viva voce _ didn’t intimidate him in the way that Maes’ talent for interrogation could.

“First things first. What are you assholes doing?” His face shows no hint of jokes or jests, brow flat and eyes hard, cold. 

His fingers still in her hair. 

“Let me rephrase.” He continues, leaning  back in the armchair and folding his hands over his knee. “Why are you-” and he gestures at Riza “-risking  _ your  _ academic career to fool around with this piece of work?” He raises his eyebrows at Riza expectantly. 

“Some friend you are,” she shoots back acidly.

“Sometimes you need friends to tell you the hard truths. When you grow up, you’ll learn the value in that.” 

“Maes, that’s enough.” 

“When I need to talk to you, I will.” He slowly turns his head to Roy. The jovial, fatherly face Roy has come to accept as normal has completely fallen away, replaced with an expressionless facade that offers absolutely no insight into what his best friend is thinking. “So, Miss Riza. Did he coerce you? Did he bribe you? Is this a serious commitment? Did he promise you as much?” 

Steadily, she replies, “Are you asking if we’ve exchanged promise rings?” 

“Very mature. I’m sure that’ll go down like a cup of cold sick in front of the disciplinary board when they revoke your qualifications… assuming you have any? I doubt any tertiary institution in the country will want to have anything to do with you after this gets out.”

Riza breathes in. “It  _ won’t,”  _ she replies. 

“I admire the confidence, but already, I know you’re in an illicit relationship with your professor. So does your flatmate.”

Roy recoils within himself, not expecting Maes to be so forthcoming with what he knows. He can feel her eyes on him. 

“After all, there’s no guarantee either of us will keep quiet.” Maes continues. If he noticed the exchange between them, he’s made no show of it. “There must be an immense amount of trust between you two, or you’re both painfully reckless. So which is it?”

Riza glares at Maes, stony-faced. No longer lying against him, her spine is taut and she brushes away his hands, still tangled in her hair.

This… thing Maes does, it’s always been unnerving. It’s just as condemning to stay silent as it was to speak. It was his specialty, reading people like this - it’s why he was so damn good at it. 

“You don’t know,” Maes says after the brief pause. The air around them is still tense, and then he sighs, standing out of his chair suddenly. He snaps his fingers as he dwells on the thought, pacing behind his the chair while the two of them can only watch. “Or it’s a mixture of both. It’s muddled, isn’t it?” 

Her lips purse, and Roy bites his tongue to stop himself from speaking. Maes isn’t interested in what he has to say - not when the reason for his distance and sporadic attention is sitting right in front of him. He picks at the skin around his fingernails, and watches her out of the corner of his eye. She’s mulling over what to say - he’s seen that expression on her face too many times to count - a chewed lip, furrowed brow.

“It was… a fling, in the beginning,” she starts, unsure but somehow sincere. “It was a mutual attraction that went beyond what either of us expected it to be. It was difficult to be in the same room as him and then we made the mistake of deciding to be around each other  _ more _ . We weren’t terribly concerned with the rules regarding proper conduct either. We kissed…” she turns to look at him properly, a small smile playing with the edges of her mouth, “...a month into the semester.” 

“Probably the only way I was going to shut you up about making up for the participation grade.” He realizes how easily he said that without a second thought and chances a careful glance in her direction.

Smiling, she turns back to Maes, and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Believe me when I say I tried to put that incident behind me. I know you did.” Her voice becomes softer with that last sentence directed towards him, almost uttered as forgival.

Roy can see the cogs aligning and pieces falling together in his friend’s expression as he nods slowly. “When  _ you _ last came to Central,” Maes deduces. “I told you to screw your head on straight. Clearly that advice went in one ear and straight out the other. Typical.” By now, he’s leaning on the back of the chair looking at them both with his hands clasped together. “So, what now kids?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Down the road, what’s your plan? I’m surprised you’ve been able to have a relationship for this long without reaching some kind of internal hurdle. I assume you aren’t out and about too often with dates, knowing how stupid that would be in such a small town. But eventually, hiding will be too much for one of you. And my bet’s on this useless clown.” 

Roy groans, running a hand down his face. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

“Anytime, bud.” Maes quips back as he sits back down. “I guess my question is, do  _ you _ want to deal with that, just to be with him? You’re an attractive young lady who could charm the pants off any young stud in the district.”

“The ‘young studs’ around here are uncouth stock horses at  _ best _ . Roy is a pleasant change of pace.” She glances at him fondly, her brown eyes bright and teasing. “I can’t say I  _ haven’t _ considered what happens beyond this trimester… but we have to get through it first. It seems stupid to put the cart before the horse in this situation.”

Roy can see Maes mouth to him none too discreet:  _ I like her,  _ and he can’t help but smile, even if the horse jokes are at his expense. 

“Then it’s settled. You’ll both attend Elicia’s birthday party.” 

“Come again?” 

“Give it another few hours, you animal. C’mon - it makes sense! Elicia gets her godfather actually  _ turning up _ for once and not being an altogether disappointment, and you can show Riza how to paint the town red. It’s not like we don’t have the room for both of you.”

“No. You’re talking about going to Central  _ today.” _

“And?”

“We should,” Riza speaks up suddenly.

“What?” Roy balks.

Her eyebrows crease slightly at his reaction. “Academically, there aren’t any pressing matters - for either of us - and ‘Becca is going to be busy cramming. I’d hate to be in her way.” 

Just like that, Roy is officially out of excuses.

“Then it’s settled,” Maes announces triumphantly. “You can see the city if you’ve never been, but more importantly you can see Elicia!” He whips out his wallet and the string of photos cascade down to the floor; Roy notices he’s added more. Riza peers at them, somewhat perplexed at the sheer volume. 

The offer is tantalising. The likelihood of  _ either _ of them being recognised was close to nil, and he could actually show her some of the city - the  _ real _ city too, not the crappy tourist version that cost an arm and a leg to explore. It’s been a long time since he’s had any real free time and the possibility that he could simply spend it with  _ her _ is all too tempting.

He cuts Maes off before he launches into passionate explanation about how flawless his daughter is. “Do we need to drop by yours on the way?” he asks, stretching out his legs. While the ride to Central wasn’t terrible, it was  _ long, _ and he’s not sure if he can withstand Maes’ questioning for another three hours.

“No, I should I have enough here,” she responds absent-mindedly as she scrutinizes a particular photo. She doesn’t realize the clues she’s given Maes from that statement.

Despite her belongings being strewn all over his apartment, she still packs faster than him, and Roy finds himself wary of leaving her alone with Maes for any length of time. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his best friend - but Maes has an unfortunate tendency to poke and prod without a care for propriety or boundaries. He remembers the gift he bought for Elicia at the last moment - a collection of books, tied up in countless pink ribbons. Maes merely smiles at him in a bland fashion, and Riza lingers near the doorway like she’s debating whether this was a good choice or not.

They’re out of his house before the afternoon traffic starts to pick up again. Even as the doors close to Maes’ car, he can’t help but be surprised, and appreciative, at how she’s taking all of this in stride, knowing the last time with her roommate didn’t result in an impromptu weekend trip. It speaks volumes of how much she trusts him. 

Really, he should be thanking Maes because it wasn’t painfully evident until this afternoon just how much he meant to her. 

Maes, a true testament to his hasilty whispered promise as he loaded their luggage in the boot, keeps the conversation light and free from any prying questions. Roy knows that the illusion won’t last - not certainly when Gracia realises who her husband had managed to coerce into coming back to Central.

The playful regret of introducing the two comes back with the nostalgia of seeing Central again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When you walked in  
>  it was like recognizing_
> 
> _the moon when he returns.  
>  His lover bites his cheek; she_
> 
> _has no choice. All we see  
>  is the dissolution, then await_
> 
> _the reconstruction.  
>  Each time, the sky_
> 
> _yanks her into his orbit.  
>  I want to say I’m sorry._
> 
> _I want to say  
>  You win. Our bodies are like_
> 
> _the confessional booth these  
>  poems are stuck in. Even_
> 
> _the priest can see that sin.  
>  You’ll be all spit and honey—_
> 
> _or maybe I’m the poisoned  
>  flower gnawing on its own_
> 
> _lip because it has no hands  
>  to reach for you. Only words_
> 
> _that are as useless as the pollen  
>  for saying anything. I continue_
> 
> _to serve them even with your hands  
>  around my throat from across_
> 
> _the room. Your voice is home,  
>  I answer it like a bat guided_
> 
> _across the atmosphere. This  
>  is a narrative that cannot end_
> 
> _well but wants to, but must.  
>  I’ll continue to go down kicking_
> 
> _and you’ll be sweet as anything  
>  until you bite back. No, it can’t_
> 
> _end here—we won’t let it.  
>  Billions of years have passed_
> 
> _since an asteroid last hit  
>  the moon: clearly some_
> 
> _magnetic fields can be sustained._


	16. a single glance is more than enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO, WE’RE NOT DEAD. In fact, so undead that it's Ana's birthday today and we worked so dang hard for this super extra long chapter which. Honestly, I've never written so much for just one chapter. It's a christmas miracle. AND ANA'S BIRTHDAY. So make sure to give her your well wishes because she's have the reason we have this story to tell you! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> we have also been blessed with some truly spectaular art - from both [colonelhotstuff](https://colonelhotstuff.tumblr.com/) and [friendlieutenant](https://friendlieutenant.tumblr.com/)!!! please go give them a ton of love bc they Absolutely Deserve it!!!
> 
> (francisco x. alarcón, sonnets to madness and other misfortunes, iii)

 A different world comes into view.

At the first glimpse, Riza is painfully reminded that she’s never left the comfortable country tones of the East and that it never occurred to her to do so. East City is surrounded by so many backwater towns that the center has always looked like a glorious beacon of civilization and technological progress. Through the car side window, however, the impression of what East City is minimized to the illuminated metropolis that is Central, Amestris. The towering buildings, the skylines of vibrant light emanating from Central, even at this distance, makes East City look like a quaint, little hamlet in comparison.

It’s a little past eight in the evening with only a few vestiges of sunlight remaining in the horizon. Nonetheless, the city sidewalks are lively with the populace out enjoying the breezy, almost balmy spring night - walking, talking, laughing, begging. Sidewalk cafes and restaurants dot along the busy main street that cuts into the heart of the city bourough, glittering with colorful signs, endless amount of stores along the wide streets. There’s little doubt the stars above are visible because of all this, but it’s breathtaking in its own right how _alive_ the cityscape feels. In the past, she doubted there was much to see and now she struggles to fend off the typical touristy gape, suddenly converted into a fascinated child.

The car turns into the property for what Maes calls “the apartment building”. This “building” stretches up into the sky, tall and shiny likes its neighbors, sitting on the corner of a busy block. The view of the main building cuts short from a turn into an underground garage accessed with a key card, and they navigate through a confusing maze of parking levels, until the car is parked and the car ride over. Riza glances over and gives a tentative sigh. He only squeezes her fingers in response with a small, trying-to-be reassuring smile.

Outside the car, Riza stretches out her legs after being stuck in a seat for hours. “Is this your first time in Central?” Maes asks her as he hands her the overnight bag from the trunk.

Hoisting hers over her shoulder, she responds, “First time out of the East City metro actually.”

“Seriously?” he asks incredulously and taps Roy’s torso with the back of his hand. “You haven’t taken her out of the East?”

Roy frowns with an _are you kidding me?_ kind of look. “The circumstances have been limited in the last few months,” he intones and says reassuringly to Riza, “Not that I haven’t thought about it.”

Their voices echo in these sublevels, ricocheting from the concrete below, above and from the pillars around them. “There isn’t an expectation to be taken anywhere or to go anywhere. It’s a non-issue.”

“Sure, but there’s merit in taking opportunities to travelling,” Maes chimes in thoughtfully before telling her the elevator to the apartment is this way.

The elevator chimes and its doors open on the seventeenth floor, letting the festive music on this floor spill in like water.

“It’s a party, but… you knew that.” Maes grins a little guiltily.

Riza isn’t ashamed that she’s lived a very modest life - she’s never had the chance to act or think in materialistic ways, but she understands, more now than ever, that her interpretation of the term ‘apartment’ clearly doesn’t match up to theirs. Apartments, to her, remind her of living space that are small and cramped for way too much money for rent. Apartments are for people that don’t own homes for one reason or another. Her experiences gave her a limited scope of what life is beyond the means of student and there’s little extravagance with Roy and his sparsely decorated home to give her clue. With Rebecca, and especially Olivier, wealth was portrayed not only in the size of the home, but also landscapes, interior design, the crazy necessity of having curtains match the upholstery of the furniture, and so forth.

The Hughes household wasn’t an exception, but there was no way she could have guessed it stepping in. It was less like walking into her own modest apartment and more like walking into a home - a house. A house with a foyer, several thresholds leading into different parts of the house, chandelier, and rug that color coordinated with the rest of the room underneath. It’s welcoming with luminescent surfaces to match the city and charming with itty bitty rainboots lined up on the side.

To the right, Maes sets his keys down slowly on the table as if someone could hear them sneak in amidst the party music. That portion of the foyer is set up with an ornate mirror hung over sleek table of dark wood. Riza spies a large floral arrangement further along the dark side table. Well-arranged without a petal out of place. 

Pulling her out her admiration, Maes throws his arm around her shoulders and draws the both of them close, speaking just above the volume of the music. “If we mingle into the crowd, _maybe_ she won’t real-” He doesn’t finish the thought, because the idea is dashed before it can be uttered.

“ _Maes_. _Hughes.”_

The voice is sharp enough to cut through the noise and clear enough to hear the inflection and tone. The arm over her shoulder tenses and the man in question turns rigid like he’s been placed in subzero temperatures.

At the end of the hall, a silhouette outlines the shape of woman standing with hands at her hips, pose matching the tone. She recognizes it as something Rebecca would do (like that first morning after), but the stance before her carries more room for intimidation. It’s motherly, it’s _powerful_. Riza guesses this is Gracia Hughes, mentioned _endlessly_ in the car, and true to her name, she does not stomp towards them but rather glides gracefully towards them, despite the brisk pace to her stride. Her light brown hair shines from the chandelier overhead and ruffles with each step but never settles in an unseemingly place. Everything about the woman politely announces refinement and elegance. She is focused on her husband and he shrinks smaller with each step towards him. Gracia’s disapproval is subtle, never unsightly: a slight crease to her brow, the smallest frown to her lips, and green eyes narrowed only _just_.

And then she notices Roy a couple steps away from Maes, just as still. The delicate woman gasps, her arms shoot out from the core of her body like vines and she lunges into hug that’s anything but graceful. Like a brother coming home. She says something Riza can’t hear, but Roy smiles warmly - contagiously, because Riza feels the corners of her lips curve from watching them. Gracia steps back with a playful quirk to the edge of her mouth. “Too good to RSVP, are you?”

“I’m so sorry, Gracia. You know mail tends to get lost in the East,” he jokes and the smile that accompanies it looks too good on him. Beside him, Maes relaxes slightly.

The cadence in which the words leave her mouth doesn’t match the woman either. It’s exaggerated. Riza doesn’t know why she picks up on it but the thought leaves her mind as soon as Gracia turns to face Riza properly. Lost in her thoughts, she realises too late Roy is introducing her. His arm curls around her shoulders, drawing her close to his side and she won’t lie - it’s a much appreciated comfort in this foreign environment.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Gracia says in a manner that gave more towards her appearance. Not that Riza has her squared away in a predefined box just yet, but Mrs. Hughes looks like she stepped right out of the same magazine her foyer could be found in.

Riza blinks and smiles courteously. “I’m sorry for dropping in like this without much notice.” She takes her hand awkwardly like a fish out of water. Instead of a dainty, limp greet, the handshake is firm, purposeful.

Gracia waves a hand in the air as if to swat away her absurd apology. “Don’t you worry, Riza. We’re used to guests dropping in, especially Roy,” Gracia assures her. “The one who _should_ worry is this clown-” she swats at her husband’s arm, “-for disappearing on the day of his daughter’s birthday. Going out to run errands, _mi trasero._ ”

 _My ass_ , or ‘behind’, if she wants to be technical. She’s heard him use it when talking with his sisters.

“I _did_. I went to fetch her dearest godfather and tomorrow is the real treat after all.”

“Ah, ah.” Gracia snaps her fingers, twice. “I don’t want to hear it. You could have warned me, _Maes Hughes_ but we can talk about this later.” She waves them to come forward. “Come in, come in. We haven’t cut her cake yet.” Gracia smiles warmly at her. “Riza, so lovely to finally meet you. Let’s go get you a drink. I’ll return her, you two - go and say hi to the birthday girl.”

Riza can feel herself being led away into even more unfamiliar territory. Gracia guides her with two classically manicured hands on her shoulders towards one of the archways out of the foyer. “What are you in the mood for? Sangria? Red?”

As Riza tries to process it - half expecting to wake up from this absurd dream, she hears Roy behind them in between the pauses of music, “Gracia.”

They both turn and there’s something distinctly different on his face too. “ _Que pasa?”_

“She’s not …” He pauses like he’s thinking, eyes shifting briefly towards Riza before they go back to Gracia, and then he continues in Spanish with more ease, but more advanced than she can pick up. Is he worried? Her gut curls uncomfortably.

Gracia shakes her head and Riza watches as his expression eases, the line of tension in his shoulders relaxing subtly. She’d have missed it if not for the way his eyes soften, the way she’s seen them do so many times before. “You can relax. It’s just a birthday party for Elicia.”

Gracia’s assurances might work for Roy, who nods and flashes her a quick smile before being dragged back towards the lounge, but for Riza… it seems like an impossible request. She can feel her heart beating heavily in her throat, nervous energy coursing through her. _He_ might be comfortable here, a familiar if not a missing part of the Hughes’ life - but she finds it difficult to trust so easily. Being left alone with Gracia, no matter how kind her intentions might be, is intimidating. One hard line of questioning from Maes was certainly more than enough. Riza isn’t sure she has the stamina to deal with another round, less so alone.

Gracia ushers her through a high archway and leads her to what other would call a ‘dream kitchen’.The area is impressive and spacious. Countertops almost sparkle from the recessed lights hitting the right places and even she knows the cabinetry is crafted to a higher quality. It’s marginally quieter in here, the benchtops lining the wall of the kitchen piled high with platters on platters of food with backsplashes that looked to be made with tiny hands. The smell alone reminds her how long the trip took; she picks up sniffs of sauteed onions and garlic, bell peppers and tomatoes. There’s a lingering smell of some fried food that’s been ventilated but still clings to the porous material; scents of home cooking.

“It smells absolutely wonderful in here.”

Gracia pivots slightly and a subtle smile graces her face with pride. “Thank you, but I can’t say it was all me. I had some family help me organize this excessive buffet.” She busies herself assembling a small plate ofa couple of sliders and a kebab comprising of grapes and assorted cheeses before passing it to Riza. “Please eat,” she tells her. “I know food on a student budget can be pretty meagre.”

Disappointed doesn’t accurately describe what she felt, but Riza was hoping for better. Guard up, she steels herself. “Why else would I agree to go to another home? Free food,” she replies dryly.

Gracia picks up an empty wine glass wordlessly and Riza feels the curling sensation in her gut tighten. “Maes came in with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face which means that he was right and I was wrong. At least while you’re here you’ll distract him from bragging too much.” She pours a red drink with pieces of ice and fruit swimming around into the glass. “Respectfully, I may not know how you two came about, but I trust Roy’s judgement enough to leave my little girl with him in the worst case scenario.” She knocks on wooden cabinet door as if to ward away the bad juju. “And my husband didn’t spend years of specialized interrogation in the military to - oh, I say too much. Simply put: any friend of Roy’s is a friend of ours.” Gracia smiles approvingly and hands the drink to her. “Sangria?”

“No alcohol, thank you,” Riza declines. It’s simply one bombshell after another. The amount of wine and spirit bottles on the table could probably stock a club and then some, but it seems like the safer idea to stay sober, at least for now. Considering her only ally is otherwise engaged in the apartment, Riza feels far too uncomfortable drinking with a relative stranger. Gracia merely nods, and passes her an empty glass.

“There’s juices and soda on the smaller table - just there.”

Riza eyes the assortment in plastic bottles lined across the table, and opts for ginger ale, hoping it’ll settle the nerves that began to rattle. Her nose scrunches with the flight of the bubbles while watching Gracia watch her, patiently, swirling her rejected sangria in the glass without spilling a drop. Riza feels her mouth stretch into a nervous smile, and she busies herself with taking a sip. She’s well aware of what the real reason is behind this whole business - in the long drive over, it had become quickly apparent that Maes struggled not to ask any more prying questions. But here, in their house, on _their_ ground, Riza knows she’s lost the protection afforded by societal niceties.

“What’s your field of study Riza?” The question is fairly innocuous and the tone doesn’t merit any suspicion, but Riza knows that there’s a myriad of other inferences to be made under the surface now. She’s ill at ease knowing that they _know_.

“Bachelor’s of Science,” she explains, figuring that if she keeps her answers short, but truthful, Gracia won’t go digging too far. “Originally I majored in organic chemistry but I quickly realised I did much better in the theory papers compared to the labs, so now most of my study is focused on the literature coming out.”

“An incredibly dry topic, I remember.” Gracia nods. “I imagine Roy would be good at it - he’s always been the engaging sort when it comes to science. Plenty of passion for his work there.”

“A subject is only as good as the person teaching it.”

Gracia takes another sip of sangria with a knowing and perhaps pleased look. “You don’t need to work yourself up tonight. My daughter will make sure the attention is firmly on her.”

Unsurprisingly, Riza still feels tense. “I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.”

Before another weighted reply could be volleyed, the sounds of heels clicking rapidly approach and another woman enters into the kitchen. She look like she originates from same vintage as Gracia - immaculately put together, all elegance and poise. Pressed dress with no wrinkles, even for a child’s party.

Unseen for the second time, the newcomer goes straight for the hostess, fragrance wafting in her wake and enough to permeate the food smells. “Gracia! You didn’t mention that Roy was coming-” she says, until she notices Riza. “Oh! Forgive me, always the ditz - didn’t mean to intrude. I’m Aubrey. Cute shoes.” She extends a hand, classically manicured in the same fashion as Gracia’s.“New people aren’t usually a norm for these gatherings. I work with Gracia, so I’ll guess you’re an acquaintance of Maes?”

Riza glances at her worn, sweaty ballet flats she slipped at the last minute, before taking her hand. This handshake is a lot less firm, flimsy. “Via proxy,” Riza responds. “I’m Roy’s plus one.”

Aubrey pauses, a deep frown digging into her forehead as she draws back her hand. “Are you?” She asks with a less energetic feel and Riza’s response seeps in. “We’re friends, but I suppose heading out for the east causes people to lose touch completely,” she says and it sounds wistful. “I’m sorry - _how_ exactly do you know Roy?”

“This is _Riza Hawkeye_ ,” Gracia offers and amends, “A _colleague_ of his and clearly an important one for Roy to bring all the way from East City. The reason why my husband did a disappearing act after lunch; he brought the two of them back for the party.”

Aubrey’s eyebrows raise and her mouth opens slightly, but only briefly until it stretches into a cordial smile.

Riza is appreciative of Gracia for filling in an explanation to avoid her own. However, there’s politics going on here - beyond her ken, and she chews on her lip, steadily avoiding either scrutinizing gaze and looking around for an escape route.

“I see, what an interesting development,” Aubrey manages, smoothing down the pleats of her silk skirt. Every so often, she purses her thin lips, wrinkling the skin around it with each glance aimed Riza’s way. The way she holds herself now - it’s _defensive_ , Riza realises. “In any case, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Interesting how?”

The probe appears to catch the woman off-guard; her response comes slow, perhaps calculated. “When Roy left, hardly anyone heard of him afterwards. Disappeared off social media, the whole kit and caboodle. The only way to know anything about him was to ask Maes.”

“A rarity these days,” Gracia adds.

Riza hums into her cup, distractedly agreeing. “You said you worked with Gracia?” She hedges after a pause that stretches on awkwardly.

“Aubrey works for me at my private practice as a physician technician,” Gracia tactfully supplies; answering for others appears to be her hobby. “She’s invaluable.”

Aubrey’s smile has grown wooden, accepting the glass of sangria Gracia passes her. Her fingers wiggle on the stem of her wine glass as she turns her shoulders to face Riza directly, interested. “A colleague, was it? What do you do?”

Riza nods, breathes. “Paperwork he’s not to keen on doing himself, vetting through scientific journals that aid him in his research. Can’t say I blame him for outsourcing to an assistant.” She keeps her tone light, nonplussed - doing her best impression of a postgrad student at the very least. She’s still being watched critically, examined like a protozoa under a microscope judging by the way her eyelids narrow slightly but not obviously.

“How long have you been working with him?”

It’s not hard to translate that sentence into what she’s really asking: _how long has this been going on?_ This behaviour seems entirely bizarre considering the circumstances. Entirely too interested.

_Were you in love with her?_

_I_ **_was_ ** _. At one point. In the end, we wanted different things._

She swallows down the suspicion erupting from that midnight exchange - she can’t be sure. The Hughes were just as interested, except that was within the realm of reason with someone so close. Riza knows nothing about the blonde before her. She keeps her answers vague: “Just started this year. As a professor, he brings a lot to the table for the scientific community.”

“ _Professor_ ,” Aubrey laughs, exposing pearly whites, matching the color of her pearl earrings. “That’s a term for him I certainly haven’t gotten used to. Can’t believe it’s been years now.” Aubrey drains her glass and passes it to Gracia. “I should get going now, someone has to keep an eye on the kid if _he_ won’t,” she mentions and drops kisses on Gracia’s cheeks.

She doesn’t want to admit that her hackles are raised now, that there’s this ugly feeling of smugness settling on her - but it’s becoming increasingly difficult not to feel like that. _Aubrey_ , with her perfect manicure and form-fitting dress only reinforces the divide that exists between her and Roy. It’s a divide that is becoming increasingly apparent, considering the company he keeps.

 _The company he left behind_ , she reminds herself.

“A pleasure Riza,” Aubrey says distantly, waving her fingers delicately, rings sparkling in the light. “Maybe we’ll see more of each other soon.” She ducks out of the kitchen, and Riza’s left with the distinct impression that she’s failed whatever benchmark was set.

“Please forgive Aubrey,” Gracia says after a moment, moving around the kitchen island to put the used wine glass with the other dirty dishes. “She takes a bit of warming up to.”

“No worries, being ambushed seems to be the theme for today,” Riza replies rather coldly. She turns to Gracia, whose face is suspiciously devoid of any emotional markers. Riza can almost see an excuse on her lips but she decides to interject before it can be said. “Is your practice just a general one, or are you a specialist?”

There’s genuine guilt on her face now, but her response doesn’t betray her. “I work in gynecology, and my practice is focused primarily on women’s health. It’s the only one in Central District.”

“Oh, you struck me as a pediatric type.” An unfair response - a judgemental response, Riza admits to herself.

“I thought about working in pediatrics, but there was a real and desperate need for competent practices, not just old men with antiquated ideas.” She stops herself and smiles. “You don’t need to hear that old story. There’ll be plenty of time to talk after the party.” Here, she checks her watch. “It’s unfortunate that you came at the tail end of the party because we need to start wrapping up soon.” She looks over to the crowd in the living room behind Riza. “If only I can find where my daughter went…”

As if on cue, a loud squealing turns Riza’s head towards the archway to the other side of the home. Roy struggles to walk into the kitchen as several children attach themselves to his limbs and another tries to scale his torso. “You’re still here.” His eyes shift to Gracia. “And you’re in one piece. You have my thanks, Gracia.”

She huffs prettily, busying herself with arranging the platters on the kitchen island. “I am the _perfect_ host, Roy,” she replies. “Unlike my husband, who runs off without warning to _where_ he’s gone, and you-!” She points a finger at him accusingly. “You’re not off the hook either as far as I’m concerned.”

The kids are still scrambling over him like he’s made of monkey bars. “I see you’ve made some friends,” Riza teases.

He catches her eye as he peels off a four year old and winks brazenly. “We go _waaay_ back,” he explains, feinting playfully with open arms at the gaggle of children; they disperse, squealing. Some hide behind Gracia’s legs and around the island counter, before one of them knocks past the covered table and scatters the spread of napkins on the kitchen floor. Riza can see the accident before it occurs - another child skids, slips, and bumps his head from the fall. The inevitable cry freezes everyone including a few adults just by the kitchen archway. Gracia gathers him into her arms and asks him - very seriously to Riza’s surprise - if he needs to go to the Emergency Room. The boy shakes his head, holding his temple with one hand. “Then it’s not so serious,” she tells him and loudly orders the rest of them to play elsewhere and they quickly leave. Except for one.

Roy captures the remaining girl and she squeals, giggling while shaking her arms and legs. “And where do you think you’re going?” He asks her, tickling her. He has the biggest grin on his face and she’s never seen him quite so… free. It’s a completely different facet to him that’s utterly foreign to her. It’s endearing, how his whole manner changes with this child - clearly, he cares about her. It must be the birthday girl, Riza surmises - enjoying this little display to a new side of him. “Okay, okay. Let’s calm down.” Roy stops his tickling assault and lets her settle on his hip; that’s another _different_ look to him. “Elicia, this is Riza. Can you say hi?”

Elicia’s face is red from being tickled and tossed. She pushes the light brown tendrils that came loose from her pigtails away from her face. “Hi,” she greets. No smile, no gleam in her that she had moments before. Riza doesn’t have much experience with children herself, it doesn’t bother her as much as she feels it ought to.

But she can be friendly, so Riza smiles and steps in a little closer. “Hello Elicia. Happy birthday.”

The toddler blinks at her.

Blocking his voice with his hand from Elicia’s direction, Roy whispers, “Ask her how old she is.”

She’s nothing if not obedient. “How old are you today?”

Elicia’s little fingers closes in on her palm, but she thinks about it, keeping it close to her dress. She’s about to answer until another finger goes up at the last moment and she proudly displays three toddler-sized fingers.

It’s adorable. Riza doesn’t know if it’s the equally proud grin on Roy’s face or the kid alone, but it is incredibly delightful. “Wow, that’s three whole years.” She shrugs and grimaces at how clunky and awkward she sounds, the inexperience with kids rearing its head again, but she tries to find some common ground regardless. “My birthday is this weekend too, Elicia.”

The grin slides off of Roy’s face and it’s like it transfers over to Elicia, because she gasps with delight. In unison, they say “It is?” and “How many?”

Riza throws a glance over to Roy before going back to Elicia and holding up two fingers in one hand and one on the other. This fascinates the child. The light gleams in her eyes is undoubtedly inherited from her father.

Roy says something she can’t hear right as the sound of cheering rolls into the kitchen and drowns out his words. Elicia squirms, no longer complacent in his arms, and he lets her slide down instead of placing her down. Not once does he break his concerned look away from her. 

His mouth keeps moving, so Riza leans in. “Sorry, what?” she half-yells.

He leans in also but closer, words tickling the inside the shell of her ear. “When is it?” he asks loudly and she barely can barely hear him despite their proximity. It becomes a weird dance of twisting and tilting heads to communicate with each other:

“When is _what?”_

“Your birthday! Is it today?”

She shakes her head emphatically. “No.”

“Then when?”

The day has been so long already, and she needs to think for a minute to what the current day is. “Tomorrow,” she responds.

Roy frowns, before tearing his eyes away to someone behind him - Maes. She can’t hear what they’re saying, even as close as she is to them.

Instead, she peeks around them to look at what is causing such a jubilant ruckus. There’s a wall of people surrounding the spacious living room area, blocking her view from the main event. Roy taps her arm and gestures her to follow her into the living room. Eventually they wiggle their way around the other partygoers - it was somewhat staggering how many people could actually fit in. When Riza can finally see above the crowd, she spies a blindfolded child with a stick swinging and missing the object overhead.

A piñata. The last time she laid eyes on one was coincidentally for her sixteenth birthday when Rebecca snuck in one in past the dorms - _because like hell is a few rules gonna stop Rebecca Anne Catalina from celebrating her best friend’s sweet sixteenth in style, dormitory rules be damned._

This one was a lot bigger than her 500 cenz contraband - and as they reach where Gracia is standing with an increasingly fussy Elicia, Riza can hardly fault the kid for wanting her turn. It’s a beautiful piece - a bright pink and glittery unicorn. Certainly made from a better ilk than the ones she’s familiar with. 

It’s incredibly entertaining to watch the children try to hit it, and she notices, embarrassingly sooner rather than later, that the crowd was instructing the child with the blindfold where to hit. Enough space was given to ensure no one got hurt from a swing gone rogue and a burly man to the side was manning the rope that changed the height of the target.

It takes two more children frantically missing and occasionally hitting before the piñata falls to the floor and the kids rush in and excavate it for the candy. It’s almost... barbaric with the way the children scramble over one another but the room roars in laughter.

Another piñata is strung up for the adults who want to participate - which Roy surprisingly does. Maybe that shouldn’t be _too_ unexpected, considering his character. His smile is wide and mischievous as he nears her, stick and blindfolded extended but she shakes her head. These people might not know her as anyone more than someone who came with Roy but she still feels so awkward with so many eyes on her. The crowd jeers good-naturedly.

He offers her the stick once more and Riza lets her shoulders slump before accepting it and turning around so he can tie the cloth around her eyes. “Not what I imagined would be happening the first time I blindfolded you,” he murmurs in her ear as he ties the knot firmly and Riza can’t help but snort.

She’s spun around maybe four or five times before she feels his hands on her shoulder, stabilising her. “If I whack it down it won’t be me wearing this,” she promises. Roy snickers, before drawing back. The noises all around her are distracting - part of the challenge, she guesses.

The language the partygoers use doesn't change for her but by this point she’s got the hang of it. _Arriba! Abajo!_ She misses the first couple of times, but on the fourth swing her aim is true. The crowd cheers and impossibly manages to increase their volume. Riza stills, and counts to three before raising her arms once more. The solid _thwack_ that falls makes all the children scream in delight, and she pushes the blindfold down as they all push past her, chubby hands outstretched.

A man motions to her to pass back the stick and blindfold, and she’s momentarily confused as she twists to find where Roy is in the room. The adults are dispersing, and it takes her a while to spot him in the corner by the bookshelf stuffed with what looks like medical tomes, listening intently to whatever Maes is talking about. His eyes slide to her as she nears, and it’s hard not to respond in kind to the wide grin he gives her. She’s not used to seeing him smile so freely like he is - cheeks dimpling and the skin around his eyes crinkling. She likes this side of him - it’s not entirely foreign to her, but she’s… bewildered by the open affection: the amount of it, certainly. His arm slips around her shoulders easily and he draws her close to him, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head.

“I should’ve known better than to bet against her,” he tells Maes, pride evident in his voice.

Maes sniggers, shaking his head. “I’m wagering that wasn’t a fluke, correct?”

Riza tries her best not to sound too pleased. “I may… have been well-known back home in the claybird circles.”

“It’s a wonder you weren’t picked up by the Eastern Branch with a skill like that.”

“I gave it up when I left for boarding school. It wasn’t an ‘appropriate sport’ for a young woman like myself.”

“Bah. What a joke.” Maes makes a face. “If you ever want to try your hand at proper targets again, let me know. There’s a few people I work with who could do with some humble pie in their diet.” He winks at the two of them, before ducking down and capturing Elicia from the pile of children still wrestling over the remains of the piñata.

She watches him leave, and for a moment, Riza thinks they are - or she is, perhaps - attracting looks from the others in the room. It makes sense that she’d stand out a little in the environment - everyone else here seems to be familiar with each other to a certain degree, and while Riza is fairly certain she’s the youngest out of the adults here, it’s by no means a significant amount.

Roy’s arm moves from her shoulders to rest against her back, his hand splayed comfortably over her hip. “Are you having fun?” he asks.

She meets his eyes briefly, feeling the weight of the day. “Of course. Are their parties always this big?”

He hums in thought. “It depends, but you can always count on at least this much chaos. Normally I’d expect more but we all have to be good role models for the little ones.”

“You mean being good role models to the little ones currently having a _fight to the death_ over some chocolate?”

“It’s a sacred, time-honoured tradition,” he tells her indignantly, but she can hear the laughter tucked away in his voice. “Plus it teaches them survival skills - this is just as much an education as any classroom.”

“I suppose you were the piñata _king_ in your day.”

“Piñata _overlord_ to you, avecilla.”

The children are still combing through the tattered remains of the pink unicorn when Gracia carries in the cake, adorned with lit sparklers. Much like the rest of the party, the cake is a decadent, opulent affair. There’s three tiers, immaculately frosted in ombre pink roses, and the part-Amestrian, part-Spanish ‘Happy Birthday’ they sing is almost deafening in the lounge. Gracia is efficient about cutting and dismantling the tiers, and it’s an amusing sight watching Elicia toddle around the room and thrust pieces of cake into peoples’ faces. She’s given a piece that has dark swirls in it, and Roy swaps it with his, a soft pink slice that smells strongly of strawberries.

She’s left with no option but to sit on his lap because _of course_ the chairs she spied before mysteriously vanished to other parts of the house unknown, and she’s certain that she’s become as pink as the cake she’s eating. Her embarrassment is quickly forgotten - the cake is _delicious_ \- and she finishes it quickly, despite the nervousness she still feels lingering in her gut. People seem to trickle out in twos and threes, some carrying exhausted or sleeping children, cherubic faces smeared with cake and frosting.

Nobody seems perplexed by their arrangement and over the course of an hour, Riza meets many of Roy’s former colleagues. It’s somewhat peculiar how _fascinated_ they all seem to be with her - sure, she looked younger than a fair few of them, but one man - Fuery - was only twenty-three himself. Roy’s hand is warm on her thigh, and he idly draws meandering patterns as he catches up with old friends. She supposes that being the most recent newcomer to this group means a certain amount of attention, and she has to remind herself that Roy appears wholly unconcerned with introducing her to these people.

She watches as a weary Elicia is passed from her mother to her father, the two of them disappearing down the hallway. Music begins to emanate from the other side of the lounge: she recognises some of it from Roy’s collection. The adults that remain are either conversing or dancing to some soft music, compared to the fast paced drums of before - Maes comes back after a short while and all but sweeps his wife into arms, the two of them laughing and stumbling. Their open affection towards one another is sweet, if not a little foreign to her: in a different life, Riza wonders if she could’ve had the opportunity to grow up in an environment like this, with a warm, inviting family.

She’s roused from her wool-gathering by Roy shifting under her. She twists to face him better, hand raising instinctively to brush his hair away from his eyes. The temperature of the room pales in comparison to how warm his skin feels under her fingertips.

“Bed?” he asks her softly and she nods, sliding off his lap. It’s been a long day - much longer than she anticipated - and the promise of a quiet space after all this is what she craves right now. Roy groans as he pushes himself out of the armchair, making his way over to where Maes and Gracia are swaying from side to side. They don’t stop their slow rhythm, but over her husband’s shoulder, Gracia’s fingers raise and flutter in acquiescence.

* * *

Her fascination of the view from the guest bedroom doesn’t waver. The bright lights of Central twinkle below her, flecks of gold in a dark sea of blue-black as she approaches the window - which she quickly realises is actually a _sliding door,_ leading onto a small balcony. She watches the traffic on the highway towards the north, how the light snakes and bends, and then shifts her attention to the reflection in the window.

She supposes she really shouldn’t be surprised when Roy crosses over the threshold, dropping onto the bed and groaning in delight. This room - the guest room, supposedly - is bigger than her _lounge_ , and better decked out than any bedroom she’s been in - including Roy’s. Much like the rest of the house, she’s reminded of those interior design catalogues; There’s throw rugs on throw rugs with even more throw _pillows_ and yet another bouquet of fresh flowers on top of a large dresser in the corner. Roy is nearly swallowed by the bed - both for its size and duvet that seems to be made of nothing but air.

Riza draws the plush, floor-length curtains to a close. Roy sits up as he slowly unbuttoning his shirt and he winks at her when he catches her gazing.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, fingers slowing as she turns and approaches him. Slipping into his lap, she cups his jaw and kisses him sweetly, her tongue brushing against his lightly.

“I’m… alright,” she answers after a moment, linking her fingers at the base of his head. “Tired. Long trip, long day.”

Roy’s hands settle on her thighs, stroking the exposed skin softly. The air is cooler in here than in the lounge, and she’s aware of the goosebumps rising across her skin. “You did very well,” he tells her. There’s no mistaking the pride in his voice. “A true baptism of fire if I ever saw one.” She laughs at this, ducking her head in embarassment.

“It wasn’t terrible,” she admits. “That much attention isn’t a regular occurence.”

“Tomorrow will be just us,” he promises her, catching the corner of her mouth for another quick kiss. He’s quiet for a moment, fingers sliding over her shirt and catching on the underside of her hem. “Why didn’t tell me about your birthday earlier?” He asks her solemnly with a look on him to match.

Riza maneuvers her way out of his lap to a seat on the bed next to him. Truthfully she answers, “It’s just an arbitrary day. I could choose any day to celebrate and it would be exactly the same.” He looks incredulous, as if he heard her say the sky outside is green. “I could be wined and dined at any given day.”

Roy cocks his head to the side, contemplating. “For tomorrow, I think I could arrange that. Get you a bottle of champagne and everything, since you’ll be legal, after all.”

“You’ve met my roommate, do you think I’ve been deprived of champagne until now? You’ll have to try harder to impress me, and not just wine with fruity bits in it.”

“That also can be arranged.” He says it low, with a different type of sincerity, and it’s times like this that she finds herself questioning him and herself and how they got here. Like a reminder that it can go away just as quickly as it began.

“Why so adamant about this?”

His shoulders rise with an inhale as he thinks about, his dark eyes lose focus as he assembles his thoughts. There’s a hum sounds from his chest that she’s felt against her cheek before. “It’s your birthday,” he says and thumb goes over her fingers that are leaning against the bed. “And I don’t think I’ve taken you on a proper date before.”

Before, her quip would have been “professors don’t date their student assistants”. It’s so clear in her head that she can even her the inflection in which she says it; a distancing measure to keep vulnerability away. Now, _excitement_ flutters in her stomach at the prospect where no one will recognize him, where she can properly call him hers. Her lips split her face into a wide grin and says, “Then it’s a date.” She opens her duffle bag and fishes out her toothbrush. “Now, can you tell me where’s the bathroom?”

Rubbing his neck, Roy gestures with a nod to a door partially obscured by the curtains. “There’s an ensuite just through there. You could shower if you want to.” Pushing himself off the bed, he slides the door open, and crouches down beside the sink to find the towels. Riza trails in after him, her jaw growing slack once more.

“Silly me, I thought this was just a second closet,” she says, accepting the plush towels handed to her. The shower next to her is one of those modern, open-stall kinds with a removable head as well as a larger rainfall-styled one hanging from the ceiling. The silver finish twinkles brightly in the light. “Everything just oozes money, I’m afraid to touch anything.”

“Military is big bucks on its own and Maes was good at what he did before he left to be a stay-at-home dad. Gracia is on a board of directors for Central General, and does some hours in a private practice as well. Between what he did earn and what she gets now, this is a fairly modest house.” He leans against the sinktop, a strange smirk pulling at his lips.

“Calling this modest is funny to you? I know my flat isn’t comparable to a five star hotel, but this bathroom alone is nearly as big as my bedroom.” She exaggerates, but for an ensuite in the guest bedroom, this is absurdly _spacious_.

“No. Well, _yes_ , ironically. But that’s not-” The smirk grows and he moves closer to her, taking the towels from her arms and sets them down behind him on the countertop. “I’m just remembering the last time I was here.”

Riza feels like she’s missing some vital piece of information. “Care to share with the rest of the class? I’d like to smirk too after the day I’ve had”

“Just with you. On your knees, if you don’t mind.” His voice is slipping into that rougher cadence she loves so much where t’s are more pronounced and o’s are elongated.

“On my knees? That’s a strange learning environment.” Her toothbrush is tossed onto the towels, forgotten, and she closes the gap between them, pushing his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders. She loves the feeling of his skin under hers, the curve of his biceps as she pushes the shirt further down. She moves to kiss him, but pulls herself back, licking her lips. “Please share with the class, _sir,”_ she tells him, savouring the way the address rolls off her tongue. The Adam’s apple in his throat bobs conspicuously and she draws back, fingers sliding under the hem of her shirt. The urge to kiss him is overwhelming, even more so with the way that his mouth parts, dark eyes watching her intently.

A second wind appears from the thought of doing away with the tense evening with a little fun. Riza feels no shame in how she proceeds, however wantonly.

“The last time _I_ was here…” she begins, thoroughly enjoying how he watches her hungrily, “...how did I look? Was I wearing anything in particular?” She shouldn’t feel the pride she does in that moment except learning that his disappearance after the kiss in library had by no means abated his desire for her, but rather _encouraged_ it - rewarded her with confidence and swelled her with pride she’s never embraced before.

He shakes his head shortly, still seemingly glued to the spot. She wastes no time in removing her top, unzipping her pants. By the time she’s fully naked, a pool of fabric around her feet, his hand has drifted to his groin, and she can just see the faint outline of him against the dark fabric of his trousers. Part of her simply wants to drop to her knees for him then and there - but another, darker part of her wants to see if she can resist his honeyed requests, and for how long. The idea of him _making_ her kneel is a dangerous one, one that makes the throbbing in between her thighs a million times worse. Riza knows he’d never really hurt her. But the idea of being manhandled? The possibility is too tempting to ignore. There’s something primal about the whole thing, the way all her sense goes out of her head when he lays his hands on her. In another time, with a different person, she’d allow herself to run scared, to close herself off from what she feels.

With him it’s like she needn’t have worried. In truth, it’s the scariest part about their relationship. She’s never exposed herself openly with anyone, emotions laid out and ripe for the perusal. Vulnerable. He knows her better than anyone - in some ways, better than Rebecca - and while addressing what that means for her immediate future and beyond is somewhat terrifying, what is more terrifying is that she doesn’t want an existence where he no longer plays a part in her life. Tonight encouraged this train of thought - being able to enjoy his touch without fear of reproving glances, of harsh whispers. She knows he enjoyed it, and so did she. She meant was she said -before in the Roy’s apartment: she hasn’t thought about beyond the trimester and she isn’t sure she wants to back to how they existed before… or if she will be able to.

She steps into the shower, and fiddles with the valves to turn the water on, the sounds of him undressing behind her, and she barely has time to turn round before he’s crowding her against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall, kissing her deeply. His length is poking against her, and her hands instinctively trails down his torso and her fingers curl around to grip him steadily. He groans once, huffs twice as she strokes him gently, dipping his head to kiss along the long line of her neck. They’re firm, insistent, pushing past the sensation of ticklish into something that she feels settle in her own groin. Her head tilts back to the wall and his mouth meets hers once more.

There’s a sweetness on his tongue now, whether it’s from the cake or the alcohol is irrelevant. His hands rest firmly on her hips, drawing her close, fingers gripping against her wet skin. Her lips swell as their tongues meet and there’s an occasional moan from either of them. Her skin rises with bumps from the kind of shivers she knows isn’t from the cool tiles behind her or because the water is only half-hitting her. It’s in anticipation, because if she’s frank this type of slow but steady seduction aids to escalate her more, pushes her body against him more, stroke just a little _more._ She’s utterly powerless to do otherwise.

Fueled by this fevered desire to reenact his fantasy, she musters the willpower to push him away from her slightly, and the disgruntled noise coming from him is nearly enough for her to drag him back and forget about what she wants to do to him. She gets to her knees, sliding down his frame with hands on him for balance.

His cock, the visual reminder of what renders her vulnerable in between the knees, is _right there_. She grips it purposefully again, opens her mouth and drags her tongue along the underside. A hand over her slams loudly against the tile. A strained noise erupts from his throat as her mouth slowly takes him in, wetting his cock with saliva. Her wet hair moves with her as she repeats the in-and-out motion, using her tongue to move against the underside at the base.

A hot tingling sensation pools at the bottom of her abdomen when she looks up because _fuck her sideways_ Roy Mustang is a sight, a _treat,_ pink and blushing and gasping as he watches her with _absolutely nothing_ but unadulterated lust in his eyes. She pushes her fringe out of the way, and kisses the head delicately, tongue swiping at the precum that beads there and he makes the same, strained noise but it’s become rougher now, granular and coarse.

She takes him deeper into her mouth now and closes her eyes when his hands fists in her hair, guiding her. He’s openly moaning now, and it echoes off the tiled walls, reverberating down into her core. She shifts her weight from one knee to the other, and the slickness between her thighs is unsurprising: she feels it in between her lips without even having to touch. His grip in her hair tightens and Roy squeezes his eyes shut, chest heaving and gasping above her.

“Riza - _please-”_

She changes tactics with not just bobbing her head, she uses her tongue, the plush of her lips to swirl all around him, from the head to the shaft to the base while occasionally clutching his balls and he damn near _squeaks_ , breath hitching and moaning in the comedown. _“I can’t-”_ he chokes, but she merely kisses back along his length and flattens her tongue along the underside and hums. His fingers are properly knotted in her hair now, pulling and releasing harshly as his grunts and moans increase in volume and fervour. She knows how this fantasy ends, the image he conjured all those months before. Perhaps she should feeling more guilty for indulging such a debased and depraved action, but at this point she can hardly bring herself to care.

Roy’s arms brace his weight against the shower wall when he cums, and it’s all sorts of gorgeous watching him and the way his face tenses and relaxes as she continues to stroke him. He spills over her lips, and she makes no effort to catch the threads that drip down to her chest - not until he opens his eyes, and watches her swipe her fingers along her skin.

“You really can’t do that to me,” he manages, panting heavily. Riza raises her eyebrows briefly in defiance, and licks her fingers clean. The tiles are digging harshly into her knees now, she can feel goosebumps all over her skin from where the water has cooled off.

“Those requests lose any sense of authority when it’s clear you enjoy it so thoroughly,” she replies, grabbing at his hands for balance as she pulls herself back up. Her knees protest and Riza sucks in a gasp as the blood rushes back through. His hands rest firmly on the rise of her ass, and she slides her arms around his neck.

“Did you like it?” she asks, and it’s endearing to see the way the blush tint over his cheeks.

 _“Yes,”_ he tells her emphatically. “I shouldn’t like it as much as I do.”

“Me on my knees?”

Roy laughs sheepishly coupled with a boyish smile. “ _Yes_ , but I meant that particular context.”

She pokes her tongue out slightly and confesses, “If it makes you feel better, I wasn’t a saint after the library incident either.”

“Is that right?”

A smile grows on her face, wide and unabashed. “Perhaps I could show you.”

* * *

When Riza wakes, the bed is lonely and wide with only her in it. A few minutes pass to gather her bearings and she realises why the mattress feels different, or why there’s a lack of freshly-brewed coffee lingering in the air. She pushes herself up slowly, stretching her back and arms and waiting for the satisfying _pop_ as her joints roll over each other. Her head turns towards the window where the sun streams in and she sees once more the fascinating cityscape. Outside she can hear the sounds of the city: car engines, the occasional siren wailing.

 _Central_.

It feels like a dream - half-remembered and hazy in the warm morning light. Her hand drifted to her side, palm flat on the cool sheets. Roy must’ve already gotten up, she wishes he hadn’t so she wouldn’t have to exit the bedroom alone.

Riza yawns, rubbing the sleep at the corners of her eyes.

She drags herself out of bed after a good five minutes of dozing, the sunlight becoming too bright for her to ignore. It takes her a few moments to realise that Roy’s sweater is _not_ a good choice to wear on it’s own, sans underwear, and so she spends another few minutes of fumbling through her duffle bag to find pants and socks.

The apartment is quiet as she walks down the hallway towards the kitchen - a far cry from the hustle and bustle of last night. She runs a hand through her hair to pull it up quickly, wincing at the knots that catch on her fingers. Normally she was good about brushing her hair out after getting it wet but… distractions were abundant last night.

Gracia greets her with a wide smile as she enters the kitchen. The room smells of cinnamon and sugar and furniture that was tucked away last night has been place in the middle of the vast kitchen floor.

“Sleep well?” Gracia asks. She gestures for Riza to take a seat, and busies herself with the kettle.

Riza laughs nervously. “I did, thank you.” She feels awkward phrasing it like that, but saying _‘I slept great thanks, Roy really outdid himself last night,’_ is utterly out of the question.

“Tea or coffee? I have black and herbal.”

She’s been spoiled with Roy’s addiction. “Coffee please.”

Wordlessly, Gracia nods and busies herself with a french press behind her. No longer captivated by the hostess, Riza takes the opportunity to properly appreciate the surroundings. It’s even more spacious than last night, transformed from the absence of food platters on refined kitchenware and drinks and _people_. It surprises her how cozy and vibrant the whole set-up feels. There’s a round dining table in the corner where the family of three usually breaks their fast. It’s adorned with a high chair and covered in a white table cloth, drinking in sunlight from the windowed doors that probably lead out to a breezy balcony overlooking Central City. The whole apartment is like this actually, vibrant and welcoming. _Warm_ and _homey_ are the first adjectives she would associate with it. It’s a far cry from the environments of her childhood.

She’s still taken aback with how much money she’s surrounded by. Unlike most displays of wealth, theirs favor subtler accents, not gaudy or ostentatious in the slightest; it’s in the large windows and long curtains flowing curtains, the vaulted high ceilings and the overall classical touch to the decor.

A cup of steaming coffee - black, of course - is slid to her, along with a sugar bowl and a creamer. Riza mumbles a “thank you”, humbled by her hospitality and beauty of the house.

“Are you hungry? The boys went out to get ingredients for a proper breakfast, but there’s a few leftovers from what the guests didn’t take if you’d like me to put that on a plate for you. Plus, some pastries I’ve warmed up.”

Riza smiles into her cup, shaking her head after the first tiny sip, testing the temperature of the liquid. “I can wait. Thank you.” Settling opposite of Riza, Gracia waves her hand in the middle of her own sip like it isn’t a big deal for her, but she feels the need to get the point across. “For that and for taking us in such short notice, again. Your house is…” she looks around briefly and slightly breathless finishes. “Very beautiful.”

Gracia returns the smile looking into her ceramic cup, the steam rising from it outlined by the morning light. “Thank you, we’re very fortunate to be where we are. To provide for our family without worry. It’s all I could ask for.”

It’s admirable, Riza notes, she’s done more than just provide. She and her husband have created a nurturing environment for their child, together. An attentive father, a living mother, and candy-filled papier mache unicorns for her birthday. It’s something she would have look forward to in another life.

The coffee tastes bitter on the second sip.

“Roy mentioned you were still sleeping when he left. _‘Dead to the world’_ were the exact words he used.”

It’s her turn to turn to smile down to her cup, tucking a rebel strand of loose hair behind her ear. Riza nods. “I probably was - it’s a really comfortable bed.”

“Does Roy not own comfortable bedding?”

“No, no. Far better than what I personally own. The day was long, that’s all.”

Gracia hums and is silent for the two palpable seconds that follow, like she was processing the information. “I hope the party wasn’t too much for you. Children’s parties are usually a quieter event, but we like to have our traditions.”

“I can’t say I have a point of reference.”

“How do you mean?” she asks gently, adding a curious tilt to her head.

“I didn’t grow up going to ‘traditional’ children’s parties - as in, with games and cake and friends. It’s safe to assume this is my first.”

It’s not long before the gears click into place for Gracia. She’s not surprised; Riza imagines that being a doctor means that Gracia has seen people from all walks of life. Whether Gracia’s objective is to craftily weedle out information out of Riza or not, most people resort to awkward silence once they reach this point. Unless they possess enough morbid curiosity to ask one more question, and for a brief moment, quietude settles over the warm breakfast nook without fail.

“I know it’s not exactly my place to ask…”

Riza raises her eyebrows expectantly, anticipating the “what happened to your parents” question.

“But if I don’t ask it certainly no-one else will. You and Roy - are you using protection?”

Riza chokes on her coffee and nearly cracks the cup as she slams it down on the tabletop. Her eyes water and her tongue burns, but not as much as her face currently is. If she was blushing before, she’s positively scarlet now. Gracia seems unfazed by the reaction, and simply waits.

 _Oh, fuck. She’s serious._ Even for Riza, that joke tastes dry to her.

“I- uh-” Riza stammers, chokes, and coughs, accepting the cloth napkin nonchalantly handed to her from across the table. “Hm. I don’t know if that’s-”

“Any of my business?”

 _“Relevant,_ more like?”

Gracia shrugs casually. Despite her brash interjection, Gracia’s composure hasn’t faltered. Her eyes utilize same probing quality that she experienced under the scrutiny of her husband.

Birds of a feather, apparently.

“To you it might not seem that way. In my line of work, I deal with far too many unprepared pregnancies in my job as it is. The last thing I need is for Roy to dive head first into become a father when neither of you are prepared for parenthood.”

_Parenthood? Who said anything about parenthood?_

Blindsided by the bizarre turn in conversation, Riza tries to find the words to rationalize where this is coming from.

“I suppose I’m just...taken aback.” Gracia realizes her word choice and shakes head and hands. “Not by your age, or you in particular, but rather... His _choice_ of you: a younger paramour, not quite at the stage to be seriously thinking about raising children. Especially when his last relationship hinged on if she would or wouldn’t and he seemed so adamant about what he wanted. Choices are choices, I’m sure, but you have so much to enjoy still.”

Her mouth begins to feel stuffed with cotton wool. “I’m sorry, where exactly is this coming from?”

“Protection: firstly, if you’re using it or not and secondly, what kind?”

Is this what having a mother is like? An overstep of boundaries and privacy? She will never know for sure. Riza’s list of female mentors is an alarmingly short one, but she’s never encountered this kind of questioning before; a drilling sort, swift and sharp, that it has her responding just as quick: “I have an IUD.” It was the most logical solution, especially after the time with the port wine. Quick, but far from painless those first few days.

Seeing the woman across the table visibly relax, Riza follows up with: “Not that my personal, preventative measures are anyone’s concern, may I ask why you needed to know?”

“Surely-” Gracia starts, but stops just as quick. Cracks show themselves across the face of the good doctor. Her eyes widen and her nostrils flare a little, visibly tensing up in her spring dress and covering her mouth with her hand as it slowly opens. “I am so, _so_ sorry. I thought you two had talked about it. What I heard-” Gracia covers her face and the skin of her neck is flushed. She mutters “stupid, stupid” into her palms while shaking her head. She sighs and by this point, Riza is thoroughly confused. Her arms fall with a sigh, bangs blown out of her face and she hardly looks disheveled. “I truly am sorry. I made assumptions which were based on sources I should’ve known better about.”

“Sources?” What sources, who else knew? What else did Riza _not_ know?

She nods solemnly to the side. “Greta.”

Unworried, untroubled, Riza casually asks, “One of his sisters?”

The disbelief is written clear as day across her face. “He’s told you about his sisters but not of Greta?”

“No, who is she?”

Gracia sighs. “It’s not...well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter too much by this point. Greta and Roy… used to be involved.”

“Wait. _She’s_ ‘axe’?” It doesn’t add up in her head. “But I thought Aubrey was...” she trails off, feeling as confused as her tablemate.

“Axe?” Gracia’s brow furrows disapprovingly. It permeates into her tone of her question: “Is that what he calls her?”

Riza is not so unsocialized to ignore these cues. Gracia suddenly appears guarded when she cups her elbows over the surface of the table; clearly, her and this Greta were on more familiar terms. Awkwardly, she tries to recover as Gracia’s stares, or even glares - Riza finds it hard to differentiate on her soft face - into her coffee. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

“No, no.” Gracia shakes her head again, taking in a breath to straighten herself in her seat. “It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s most likely my husband who provided the moniker. And to answer your other question - no, Aubrey and Roy never dated. Her behaviour now, in hindsight I realise...” She trails off, pensive as she moves towards the kitchen sink to rinse out her cup. “I’d prefer you ask Roy about this when you get a moment alone. I like you, Riza, and you ought to know what to expect, if you ever meet her.”

More to her coffee than to her hostess, Riza comments, “It sounds like serious business, this ex.”

Gracia smiles in response, but doesn’t comment further. She shifts the topic to lighter things - asking about how East City compares to Central, what she is planning to do with her study - and it works well enough. She has an affable attitude that lends itself well to small talk - no doubt honed after many years of conversing with patients.

After her coffee, Riza excuses herself to go change. Gracia laughs heartily that there’s no need to be _that_ polite. Riza only nods timidly and her cheeks are on fire enroute to the guest room.

Halfway through, she hears the noises of a family returning: a toddler squealing, bags rustling, and murmurs from a conversation. Even from this distance, she hears her name mentioned, followed by footsteps drawing nearer and nearer, echoing from the wooden floorboards.

When he knocks, she’s in the middle of putting on her pearl earrings. She watches him enter from the reflection of the floor mirror. He wishes her happy birthday, hugging her from behind and kissing her cheek. He explains why he left without telling her in the morning, but that brunch should be ready in a few minutes.

Riza frowns, kneeling down to look through her duffle bag. “Surely there wasn’t a need to go out for _more_ groceries?”

He shrugs non-committedly, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “They like to make a fuss over guests,” Roy explains, holding out her oversized cardigan. “It’s easier to just go with it than try and fight them.”

The spread for brunch is absurd. It’s half as big as the options for last night’s party, but undoubtedly excessive for _four people and a toddler._ Riza finds herself drawn to the fresh fruit more than the mountain of pastries that Elicia is tackling with a determined expression on her face - she even spies on of those ridiculous gift melons, split cleanly in two.

After it, they find themselves fighting off a food coma over the sheets of the guest bed. _A siesta before the festivities_ , he says and adds jokingly, like the ones she used to take.

She smiles warmly and shifts on the bed to face him properly. It’s almost too much to do. Gracia’s advice lingers at the back of her head, and she figures now is as good a time as any. “Tell me about Greta.”

His sleepy expression falls apart and his eyes open, staring at the ceiling for long time - like he’s processing if he heard her right, and then he looks right at her, still disorientated. “What?”

 _“‘Axe’_ , right?” She probes further, carefully tucking her arm underneath her head.

The tense look on his face dissolves without prompting and he settles back into his pillow. With his eyes closed, he asks in return, “Why the sudden interest?”

“Are you _really_ going to dodge the questions of the birthday girl?”

He opens one eyes and glares at her with it. “If you don’t celebrate it, you’re not allowed to pull that card on me.”

The side of her lips slants up, a finger taps his shoulder lightly. “You’re the one celebrating it for me now.”

His eye closes once more and he frowns, probably trying to find an argument where he wins but it would go against what he was genuinely trying to do here. She should feel guilty for playing so dirty, but something about what Gracia said stuck and made an itch Riza needed scratched.

“What do you want to know?” He’s cagey, letting her ask specifics so he doesn’t have to divulge into it himself. Doesn’t he know she invented this tactic?

“Give me an overview, Professor. A synopsis. An abstract, if you please.”

He snorts, grinning. Roy mumbles an “all right” and groans as he moves to his side, propping his head on his hand. He sighs, eyes unfocusing as he tries to find where to begin. “It was back in undergrad and I was a very different person then. Eager, bright-eyed, and ready to prove myself academically and socially. We met at a party tagging along with Maes and Gracia and she was there. A cousin to Gracia.”

Heat creeps onto her cheeks. “They’re closely related?”

“No, I don’t think so. Family friends just became family at some point. I believe they explained Gracia’s grandmother and Greta’s grandmother were cousins by marriage or something, if you wanted to get really technical about it.

“We dated throughout college. Moved in together. Stayed together for seven years. _Proposed._ We broke up about two years ago.”

She tries not to frown at the detached description; part of her is afraid of touching on something he might not want to revisit. “Was she your only serious relationship?”

He’s been toying with her free hand this entire time and with this question, he lifts her hand to kiss it before mumbling against it, “At the time.”

The gesture and statement go over her head, but she softly asks, “Seven years is nothing to blink at. How did it end?”

Roy looks down at where he’s settled her free hand and caresses the back of it with his thumb. “We wanted different things.”

“I know. You’ve told me that before.”

“So I have,” he says, almost lamentably. He flattens her hand and looks directly at her. Riza almost thinks she sees him faltering in those almond shaped eyes. Roy breathes out through his nose and then it scrunches a little. “It’s embarrassing.”

Caught off guard, she dryly echoes back, “Embarrassing?”

“It’s multifaceted and part of the reason I didn’t say anything before is because it could have prompted a conversation prematurely.”

His eyes stay on her as she sits up. “Like what?”

“Children,” he answers softly, and the fractures of Gracia’s conversation form into pieces that fit into this puzzle. “She kept stringing me along with the topic to the point where I felt she was answering just to placate me. Growing up the way I did, you can’t help but have an idea of what a mother and father should be like. Unrealistic, I now realize, but back then, I didn’t want the mother of my children to be… indifferent about them, and I wasn’t about to _pressure_ her into something so life-changing that she had no particular interest in. 

“That, along with an increasing divide on opinions, and behavioral things from both our ends made me realize we grew into people all wrong for each other. There have been times I’ve wondered and admitted I may have been unfair to her, regardless if it was in reciprocation. We couldn’t have been healthy for each other in the long run.”

_Papi x favor_

_it willb e diff this time_

Unbidden, those texts rise up from the forgotten recesses of her mind. Clearly _she_ had a different perspective on their failed relationship, but there’s a sliver of vindication for the way his voice has become thoughtful, contemplative. It’s not the kind of tone she associates with indecision. Riza swallows as if to dislodge the sudden weight in the room. His behavior towards the kids and Elicia wasn’t enough to tip her off, but it made a lot more sense now. “Then why be with me?” She asks it without thinking. It’s more curious than accusatory and she hopes it comes across that way.

“Hm?”

“You could have found someone to be with you and have children, easily, within those two years.”

Roy nods slowly. “I could have.”

“Then?”

“Then, people come to their senses or they change what they want or they shelve it for a few years. It depends with the partner.” She watches him sit up now, part of his cheek red from being smushed against his palm. “Where we are - where _you_ are especially, in your life at the moment - I would hate to burden you with a choice like that before it’s even a possibility. What I wanted with her was a result of that relationship and it doesn’t transfer immediately to what I want with you.”

What he wants with her. An impossibility, it feels like now, more than ever before. But he prefaced the discussion about the prematurity of this particular topic and gave her the impression it wasn’t something that didn’t need to be discussed right _now_. Then…

“What _do_ you want with me?”

Roy’s eyes narrow and he smirks; she doesn’t know what she said that elicited that reaction. “You’re not as observant as I thought, if you have to ask.” He moves himself closer to close the space between them. Hands cradle her face and he kisses her soundly. For as many times as they kissed before, she can’t place why this kiss has the ability to take her breath away. Maybe it was the sugar she could still taste on his lips or the warmth of his mouth or the slow, caressing manner of this kiss that felt deep and yet, wasn’t. When it ends, his hands fall to hers.

“For one, Riza Hawkeye,” he says, barely above a whisper - like it’s a secret for their ears only, “What I want with you is simply _you_.”

“Smooth,” she quips breathlessly. Earnest or not, his charming lines are a wonderful package to all that is Roy Mustang, but it’s becoming increasingly hard to be resistant to them. He’s slowly disassembling her with every dimpled smile.

“And two,” he continues, licking his lips. “To celebrate this birthday and all the birthdays that weren’t remembered with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _your eyes show me how to see again  
>  like mirrors of water, understanding all,  
> there’s no mystery they can’t solve—  
> a single glance is more than enough_
> 
> _your eyes see, listen, touch, speak.  
>  are beacons on the horizon  
> shedding light on shades of life  
> beyond the reach of words_
> 
> _so I start to read your body,  
>  pausing at every mole, as if  
> they were commas or periods_
> 
> _how I love to scribble on your chest,  
>  use the muscles on your back as lines—  
> you and I are both page and pen_


	17. all the rivers sound in my body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit over two months but we're not dead! we worked really hard on this chapter and we hope u enjoy all 10k of it ;))). there are lots of interesting developments and we legit cannot wait to see how u react!!
> 
> i finally got around to editing in a large amount of the art that people have drawn for us - chapters 5, 9, 12 and 16 have all got new additions! please check them out and support the artists!
> 
> this chapter also features some art from the wonderful [colonelhotstuff](https://colonelhotstuff.tumblr.com/) and [sodayona](https://sodayona.tumblr.com/). y'all have blessed us so much, i cannot put the thanks mar and i feel into words. every time we get art we sob and cry and scream about it for days on end.
> 
> bonus points to u if u spot the e.e. cummings reference i shoved in there (it's not terribly subtle).
> 
> (pablo neruda, the queen)

“This is amusing to you, isn’t it?”

“Hm? Oh, you mean Elicia doing toddler things? Always.” 

Clever. He always thinks himself so clever. Riza deflates, and tries again. “I  _ meant _ , keeping me in the dark from where we’re going.” 

The door clicks and his shoulders pivot towards her, revealing a deviously pleased smile. A twinkle in his eye suggests there are no intentions of disclosing their evening plans. His hand lifts and a pointer finger circles in front of her face. “If I told you, then this pout you have going on would disappear.” 

In a last ditch effort, she says, “The pout of the  _ birthday  _ girl.”

“The  _ reluctant _ birthday girl,” he amends as he pushes the button to call the lift. 

With his back to her, she takes that moment to stretch out the lower half of her face to dispose of whatever pout he’s talking about and adds, “Pouting or not, surprises are better when you don’t know the surprise is coming.”

“I wholeheartedly agree, dropping the date of your birthday the day before was a  _ very  _ good surprise.” 

She huffs through her nose and focuses instead on the patterned carpet. “Please don’t hold that against me.” 

He taps the underside of her chin and the smile turns into something gentler. “Trust me, I’m not. How could you have known regular people celebrate their birthdays?” Before she can say anything else, his finger moves back and forth between her face and the doors. “By the way, those elevator doors are reflective and that pout hasn’t gone away.” 

Her mouth hinges and the temperature of her face flares up, having been properly caught, just as elevator dings. 

“Coming?” Roy asks from inside the box. 

She recovers, keeping her arms close to her body and then crossing them when she’s next to him. The indignation burns at her from his teasing. He seems a little too good on his game tonight on his teasing. Because of this, she quips back, “That all depends on you,  _ sir _ .” 

“Oh ho.” He folds his hands behind him and they look at each other through the reflection. 

“If you’re lucky.” 

Riza is pulled closer to him in a swift gesture and she sees him lower his face into her hair for a quick kiss. “I considered myself lucky since the moment you put on that dress,” he murmurs into her hair. 

She blushes differently this time, feeling it singe her cheeks brighter. “Then how about letting me in on where we’re going.” 

He lets go. “No.” 

In the journey down the elevator shaft, her eyes wander on the little screen on the top right giving little tidbits about news headlines and then, Riza catches a glimpse of herself in the reflective finish of the elevator doors. Her time in front of mirrors have become more prolonged since she met him. She looks up and down at the reflection, clad in a dress finer than most items in her closet and it doesn’t reconcile with the mental image of herself. 

Roy’s absence that morning proved to be productive for him, procuring an evening dress of a scandalous ruby color with pumps of reasonable height to match. He had laid it out on the bed, supremely smug with himself, and she could admit it was a beautiful dress - far better tailored than anything she had worn before. It was silk, but the weighted, luxurious kind that could support definition. Privately, there was some back and forth in her mind of how to accessorize the thing and Rebecca’s radio silence had been of no use to her. She had missed the memo on how to dress for adult outings. Her thoughts on the matter rested on the spectrum of frat parties and her expectations based on the movies she watched with Rebecca. There was no in between. 

As if picking up on the panicking brainwaves from the guest room, Gracia had tactfully poked a head in and ushered Roy out with minimal fussing. It shouldn’t have surprised Riza that the woman was adept with the esoteric feminine arts: unruffled and picture-ready as she appeared to be, Riza could now better understand the process to achieve that impression in the first place. 

She’s grateful for the simplistic aesthetic that the both of them share: loose, fine hair was pinned up into a tastefully modern chignon with a few delicate strands framing her face, and her make up was minimal - just applied with more finesse than what Riza had learned through tutorials online. She had watched intently while Gracia had fussed over her eyebrows, taken aback at just how much difference a bit of definition could make.

The little number she wears is actually longer than some of her skirts, but the frankly  _ dangerous  _ slit up the side of her leg soon put rest any misgivings she had about his eyesight. What was more, she had to actively stop herself from checking out her reflection every other moment while waiting for Gracia to finish fussing over her. It was surprisingly easy to reason that if it wasn’t her in that reflection, then she wouldn’t have to worry about the baggage that a different her, in a different time carried. Riza didn’t want to pretend to be someone else entirely, but at least be free, as she had been for the last few months within the confines of his apartment. 

_ And if that’s freedom to me, then I’m seriously fucked. _

The elevator dings and the doors slide open to a lobby of extravagant chandeliers and glossy ceramic floors, a concierge and interior design matching the opulence of the Armstrong’s manor. The high ceiling provides the acoustics to accommodate the low hum of chatter, given the moderate number of people lounging on the couches and armchairs, and a comfortable crackling of a fireplace. Tall, but heavy glass doors act as gateways between the cozy lobby and the sudden bustle of Central where the citylights enthrall her all over again. 

“All right, fine,” he says and it pulls her from her woolgathering. “The first stop is food.” 

Riza looks back and blinks. “That much I figured,” she intones. 

A doorman - because  _ of course _ there’s a doorman - opens the way for them as they approach, and Riza tries her best not to gawk at herself once more in the reflecting glass. “Is that so? What else do you figure?” 

She hums, thinking of his plans, until she says, “I’ve stopped there. Wouldn’t want to ruin your  _  hours of planning _ by guessing correctly.” 

He tugs her closer to him that she can’t see him smile or even hear him over the cars and noises of the city when he says, “I certainly hope you won’t.” 

As they walk down the street, Riza is struck by the sheer amount of people that seem to flood out of glittering buildings, the sandstone glinting merrily against the waning sun. While East City certainly wasn’t immune from the ebb and flow of culture - it was a significant trading hub, after all - Central City was on another level entirely.  Roy guides her left as they join the throng of people making their way through the city. It’s a messy blend of people - old men with pressed suits and sleek black briefcases, exasperated parents trying to rein in unruly children, so many  _ dogs _ \- with an even messier blend of fashions and influences. Little garden bars seem to spill out of every building they pass - crammed tightly between stationery shops and jewelry boutiques, laughter and alcohol pouring out in equal measure. 

These glimpses of the nightlife offered here, how readily available it is… it seems so glamorous compared to the kinds of nightlife Riza is familiar with. Perhaps it’s to do more with the wealth surrounding her than any true reflection of her own personal experiences, but the difference is staggering nonetheless. The parties she’s attended back home seem juvenile by comparison. 

Ten minutes into their walk, they reach a row of town homes down one of the myriad of side streets that spider across the city, not too far from a busy corner. On one of them, ivy crawls along the brickwork edifice and she wonders what a proper house so close to the actual street looks inside. 

Riza doesn’t have to wonder for long because he leads her toward the ivy-covered house. A quick jolt of adrenaline kicks in from the deviation in plans and she asks, “What’s here?” It starts to pour over her like a bucket of ice water chilling her to goosebumps when she realizes, again, that she’s in Central. She stops them both, tugging firmly on his hand. “You haven’t brought me to your mother’s without telling me, have you?” 

His eyes widen and he shakes his head almost immediately. “No,  _ no _ . I would hope that kind of surprise would be discussed between us both and the surprise would be for her.” 

Riza breathes a sigh of relief, though she doesn’t want to examine too deeply why. She’s seen enough soapy dramas thanks to Rebecca to know that there’s a certain element of significance when it comes to family… even more so for a man with fourteen adopted sisters. 

“No, this is the restaurant.” 

“This is a house,” she points out, verbally and physically with her index finger. 

“And yet it is actually a restaurant.” Roy corrects her gently. This time he gestures to the nondescript sign at the face of the building, negligible in the waning sunlight if not pointed out directly. It reads:  _ Rose Compass _ . He grabs her hand and leads her up the cement stairs. “Come on, I’ll show you.” 

Across the threshold, she could not have been more guilty of judging something by its appearance alone. The residence-turned-restaurant was small and narrow because of the spaces taken up by tables and chairs along the brick wall and a full bar at the other side. Warm, subdued light from wall sconces add to the atmosphere and music plays from speakers she can’t see.

Once he gives the hostess his name, she leads them with menus in hand to a small two person wooden table. It has a tiny lit votive and a dainty vase holding fresh picked roses. Behind her - next to the stairs they came down, she can see the hallway into the kitchen where a numerous amount of bodies work and weave around each other with dishes and food, pots and pans. To her relief, it’s not a terribly fancy affair, but the intimacy provided in the small touches of a refurbished house still feels new and exotic to her. It is infinitely preferred to the still-quiet restaurants where only the silverware clinks and stern maître d'hôtel's hover in the corners overlooking the staff in stiff suits.

“Does the venue fit the lady’s liking?” Roy asks teasingly, unwrapping the utensils from the cloth napkin. 

Hands on her lap, she breathes out whatever was stagnant and nervous in her lungs. “I have to admit, I was a bit apprehensive of where you would decide to take us.”

“Afraid I was going to take you to a greasy burger joint?” 

“No,” she laughs. “The opposite. Somewhere lavishly exquisite.” Somewhere she’d guilt herself for feeling just a bit out of place.

“I think I caught onto that,” he says before the waiter comes to their table, and taking their drink orders. And for the first time, she can present an ID. It’s a novelty, sure, but this whole trip has been an exercise in that. She’s even told happy birthday. The waiter, college-aged like her, details the Aerugan food on the menu and listing the chef choices and crowd favorites. The menus are taken from them and she picks up their conversation from when they were interrupted.

“What did you mean?”

He’s playing with the rose petals in between his thumb and his fingers. “About avoiding fancy-schmancy, cultured restaurants you mean?” 

She takes a drink of water, closing and opening her eyes slowly as she deliberately enunciates  _ “Yes” _ in response to his teasing jab. 

“Perhaps you’re catching a glimpse of the old life, my old peers, and it looks like it was dripping in wealth, compared to the apartment back in the East. Are you thinking I miss it?” When Riza doesn’t say anything, he hums and looks at the table cloth without focus, fingers stilling between rose petals. “We both didn’t grow up with much. Even when my foster mother found me, it wasn’t like there were bags of money waiting for me in the living room. It’s easy to feel uncomfortable in the face of it. I appreciate Maes and Gracia for their humility in that regard, never shoving it in the faces of the people that they knew. Always very conscious of how the other ninety-eight percent live. Gracia still wires out a stipend to her family every month.”

“Why doesn’t she just bring them here?” Riza asks before she realises how insensitive she sounds. 

Roy appears unperturbed. “Her family doesn’t want to leave their home country; there’s history and pride steeped deeply that soil and the house they reside in has been in their family for generations, even though it’d be no bigger than my living room. But it’s also incredibly tough to live on your own.

“Before I get off track, I’m saying,  _ I understand  _ and it’s precisely why I don’t prefer it either.” 

Riza nods a thank you to the reappearing waiter for the wine bottle presented, uncorked and then poured into their wine glasses. She takes a sip and it is a smooth and  _ dangerous _ red, going down her throat without so much as a bitter note. It pools in her lower abdomen warmly, making her a little breathless and even scandalously causing her to flush. “Tell me: this dress and the shoes? Were they just wild purchases?” 

Roy smirks at that, fiddling with the stem of his glass. “ _ That _ was a little selfish of me. I thought the color would look nice on you.” He takes a long drink and sets it down, licking his lips. “And I wasn’t wrong.” 

He doesn’t even touch her, he only looks at her, says a few little words, and it makes her thighs squeeze together as if they were trying to contain the sudden lust. The logical part of her knows that this is a date: this sort of wining and dining is meant to elicit this kind of reaction. What she’s not anticipating is just how susceptible she is to the whole affair. 

Thankfully, their food arrives shortly after and Riza distracts herself with what’s being put down in front of her. The knowing smile on Roy’s face at her sudden interest does not go unnoticed. 

After so many months, the Aerugan cuisine he’s been sharing with her is more familiar than unfamiliar. It’s rich in spices and aroma, but her favorite is the easily recognizable one: a spiced meatball dish with a medley of sauteed and sliced ground vegetables. The wine easily accentuates the flavor of the lamb or so the waiter informs her. A seafood paella is also on the table, served on cast iron and colorful with vibrant yellow rice, pink shrimp, and greens from the green beans mixed in and parsley garnish. 

Roy, despite his competency in the kitchen, has nothing on these chefs. Riza sighs with the last bite and sets her fork down contently. It was quite possibly the best meal she’s ever had, as if her tongue had been asleep these last twenty years and now it is awake and thriving. 

Across from her, Roy sighs too, pushing his empty plate away from him and saying, “I couldn’t eat anymore. It’s no good.” 

The laugh that emerges from her is unrefined, but she can’t find it in herself to care. Although the anonymity afforded with a trip like this means that Riza doesn’t really need to worry about impressions and the likes, in truth she knows it is largely because of  _ him _ that she feels so comfortable here in the first place. This is essentially their first date together, and she can’t quite shake the giddiness she feels every time she catches his gaze. 

She is intimately familiar with those eyes for a variety of reasons, but this seems… different somehow. Not wrong, not  _ bad, _ just… different. Riza won’t lie and say she’s not a little nervous, but it’s more because she has no idea what happens next: not only for tonight, but in their future too.

She swallows down that feeling as their waiter approaches with the check - Roy merely hands the young man his card, not even glancing at the contents of the bill. “What’s on your mind?” he asks. Riza blinks rapidly, and gathers her thoughts. 

“It’s nothing. Mainly I’m curious to see what else you’ve planned for tonight. As your resident instant ramen connoisseur, this will be hard to beat I’m afraid.” She gestures to their almost-finished spread. The teasing comes naturally to her, and his responding smile is more than enough to calm the few butterflies still fluttering away.

Roy extends his hand out to her. “I guess we had better go find out then.”

* * *

The air outside the restaurant is considerably cooler than within, and Riza shivers as she feels the air seep underneath the fabric of her dress. The evening has lost the hazy warmth she left it in, now, instead of concrete buildings splashed brightly with the last light of the day, the city has transformed into an inky, saturnine landscape.

Roy moves to give her his jacket, but she waves him off, shaking her head. “I need this,” she explains, grinning. “Any longer in there and I think I would’ve fallen asleep.”

“You did look like you were going to nod off.” His arm slides around her waist and he guides them back towards the adjacent street promenade. “And we haven’t even had dessert yet.”

Riza groans. “I don’t think I could eat anything else.”

“You’ll want to, once you smell it,” Roy promises. “I would’ve been in my… second year of undergrad when I found it - this little pastry shop tucked in between a department store and the canal. It was crammed with every kind of dessert under the sun. That year alone I single-handedly kept them in business.”

She snorts, elbowing him lightly. “Has anyone ever told you how incredibly modest you are?”

“Constantly. It’s a terrible burden to bear.”

“I suppose this modesty was learned in college,” Riza leads, genuinely curious as to how their university experiences differed. “What was the most arrogant thing you did?”

“I had a terrible habit of leaving assignments until the last minute,” he answers. “I still got A’s so it really didn’t teach me a great lesson.”

Riza pulls a face. “Your kind of students are the  _ worst _ . I bet you complained when you got a B+ as well, right?”

“I did no such thing.” The reply is a little too pointed, and Riza finds it difficult to contain her giggles. 

“No, but seriously,” she tries again, pulling out from his grasp. “To be teaching professionally at your age… that’s uncommon, certainly. Did you do it all here?”

“I did my undergrad at Central U, but the practical sciences have more prestige at University of Amestris, so I switched to there for my masters. Upgraded that into the doctorate a year later. Military paid for almost everything - I was very lucky in that regard.”

“In exchange for service?”

Roy shrugs, scrunching his face up. “Kind of. It wasn’t like I had significant amounts of free time outside of study - I had to go through the adapted program for cadets when I was seventeen in preparation, and the summer semesters were spent catching up on all the pageantry we missed out on while studying. Theoretically if we had gone to war I guess my classmates and I would be called up for active service, but our positions came via the graduate program rather than enlisting outright.”

“Did you have a rank?”

“Major. It wasn’t earned in the same way you would as an actual soldier though, so it was more of a formality than something that could be used to enforce. Maes got to Lieutenant-Colonel before he left.”

“Major Mustang.” The title rolls off the tongue pleasantly, and Riza’s a little surprised to see a faint blush dusting his cheekbones. “Suddenly your whole thing with ‘sir’ makes a  _ lot  _ more sense.”

“Glass houses, avecilla,” he warns playfully. “Do you really want to go down that rabbit hole?”

Emboldened by the wine, she pokes out her tongue at him. “My answer is entirely innocent,  _ sir _ . I can’t say the same for yours.”

He gapes at her, and she darts ahead a few paces ahead, just out of his reach. 

“I find that difficult to believe,” he replies, quickening his gait a little.

Riza shrugs. “My father is a traditional man. So was the boarding school he sent me to. The women are  _ ma’am _ and men are  _ sir _ .” She stills, arms tucked behind her, rolling her weight onto the balls of her feet. The uneven texture of the pavement was not at all kind to her balance in the pumps. “Not my fault that you had the reaction you did.”

Roy scoffs and runs a hand through his hair. She watches as his tongue wets his lips. “We could spend all night debating the semantics of who is worse when it comes to nicknames,” he begins, meeting her coyish gaze with an expression that makes her weak at the knees. 

“Or… ?” Riza takes a deliberate step forward, thoroughly enjoying the way his eyes zero in on the leg exposed by the high slit in the skirt of her dress. She’s well aware that he’s been looking at her all night; but the way his hands rest on her hips, firmly -  _ possessively  _ \- is enough to send shivers down her spine. Her hands drift to the thick wool of his coat, curling around the lapels to bring him closer. He meets her asking mouth without hesitation, and Riza is incredibly grateful to lean on him for balance. He pulls her flush to his body, uncaring of the pedestrians around them, seemingly only concerned with holding her  _ just so _ as he kisses her. It’s sweet and passionate, more so than she is used to.

_ My blood approves _ , she thinks dazedly as he pulls back, delicately tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. His smile is so  _ warm _ , and Riza throws her caution to the wind as she stretches to kiss him again, relishing in the way she feels his smile stretch widely against her own.

The freedom afforded to them here is inebriating - the anonymity even more. She thought that Roy was a surprisingly emotive man, but apparently that expression was actually restrained: over the course of this short getaway, she has seen more of what Riza would argue is the  _ real _ Roy Mustang than she has for the entire trimester. Here, there’s no lingering, niggling reminder of the very real consequences for their actions. 

Here, she can kiss him in a busy street without a whit of care for who witnesses them.

Roy’s fingers are warm against her neck. He strokes the skin absentmindedly, keeping her close as a particularly large group of inebriated businessmen stumble past. 

“We should hurry,” Roy says after a moment, arm settling itself comfortably around her neck. He points to the river promenade on the other side of the street. “Otherwise they’ll be all sold out.”

Even from here, Riza can see that the pâtisserie is near full to bursting, clearly doing a roaring trade. Roy was right: the buttery, sweet smell of pastry drifting towards them is entirely too tempting. “I’ll get it to go, yeah?”

“Something  _ small _ ,” Riza tells him firmly as they draw near, letting her fingers fall from his grip and he pulls away, disappearing into the throng inside. 

Truth be told, she’s not terribly interested in the food per se: but she loves seeing Roy in this new environment. The little tidbits of information he lets slip in their conversation are what she craves, the knowledge she tucks away for further introspection later on. He’s not a different man here completely, no, it’s like he’s  _ more _ and there is a small part of her that worries that this part will fade once more as they return to East City.

Officially, they have no more classes: while the grades haven’t been formally released by Eastern University, Riza already knows that she’s passed this trimester with an A- average, more than enough to ensure her next application for scholarship will go through smoothly without a hitch. She’s lucky enough not to have classes this trimester that have external exams - she’s sympathetic to Rebecca’s situation, furiously cramming for Business School exams that are notoriously difficult. She had barely responded to the text Riza sent en route to Central, proof perhaps that she was actually sticking to the self-imposed studying schedule she had been moaning about all week prior. 

The waxing moon reflects brightly in the slow-moving canal just beyond the pâtisserie; Riza wanders over, leaning against the iron railing, relishing in the cool metal against her warmed skin. This section of the promenade is not bustling with people, but there’s enough to allow Riza to enjoy some surreptitious people-watching. The fashion differences between Central and East City are perhaps the most staggering difference she  _ wasn’t _ expecting to discover: while spring has firmly swept through the country, almost everyone here is dressing like it’s summer already. 

Distantly, she can hear sirens wailing, growing fainter. Snippets of conversation pass her by - the Central dialect is much quicker than the slow Eastern drawls she is used to. Even the smell of the city is a novelty - so many clashing scents: the lingering aroma of coffee, concrete, car fumes… 

One day she’ll make it back here and give the city the attention it deserves. Right now, however, she’s diverted by the return of Roy, holding a small cardboard box. 

“You were quick,” she remarks as he nears. Even from here, she can smell the sweet pastry. He passes it to her with no comment, with a knowing look in his eyes that she just  _ hates. _

There’s a few assorted pieces - all small, she notes with delight. He looks like he’s about to open his mouth and she holds up a finger. “I don’t want to hear any variation of  _ ‘I told you so’ _ ” Riza warns.

His mouth twists into a smarmy grin but he acquiesces, instead mirroring her and leaning against the railing. She isn’t sure which piece looks the most appetising - they all look incredible - and eventually she settles on a  _ croissants aux amandes.  _

It’s good. It’s  _ really _ good. She’s had them before - but nothing as delicate at this. Traditionally made from day-old  _ croissants _ , the sugar-to-pastry ratio is perfectly balanced with the shaved flakes of almond. It’s difficult not to scarf the whole thing down in seconds.

“Thank you for tonight,” she tells him honestly, after chewing. “I don’t have many birthdays worth remembering, even less that made me this happy.” She picks at the remains of her  _ croissants aux amandes _ . “I know it wasn’t necessarily so much of your own choice to come here but rather that your hand was forced-”

“I agreed, didn’t I?” She looks up to see him watching her, a soft smile across his features. “It was a good idea - a brilliant one, actually. It’s easy to get caught up in our own little bubble back at East. The only part I’m regretting is that we have to go back to that - back to a environment that won’t be as forgiving.” He takes back the box and fishes out a small custard tart, inclining his head towards the small park a block over.

Riza nods, and curls her hand in the crook of his elbow as they walk over. The lamplight adds a hazy, almost dreamscape atmosphere to the city, removing it from the harsh concrete foundations. “I think we run the risk that there’s going to be gossip no matter the time or circumstances, unfortunately. Will you need to declare it to your faculty?” She sits down on the park bench, brushing her crumbed fingers against the well-worn wood.

His mouth scrunches up as he joins her. “The wording of the university staff statute is… unclear. As far as I can tell, there’s not anything in yours, actually - a gross oversight on their part. I don’t know whether that’s going to work in our favour or not just yet. But -” he sits up, rummaging around in his coat pocket, “- that’s not really what I want to focus on tonight. I want to focus on your birthday, and more importantly -  _ you _ .”

“Me?” she says airly, a dainty hand fanned over her chest. “What’s so special about lil’ ol’ me?” 

He laughs. “There isn’t enough time to list out every detail. However, I know someone can express it for me.” She peeks a parcel from inside his coat pocket wrapped in brown paper before he tucks it back in. “Before I get into that, I wanted to know if you’d like to go someplace you’ve  _ definitely  _ never been before.” 

Her eyebrow lifts. “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” 

“Okay, yes. But I mean to Aerugo.” 

Riza stills. Blinks. Surely she’s heard incorrectly. “Aerugo… as in the country? Why Aerugo?”

He rubs the back of his neck guiltily. “Here’s the thing: at the party yesterday Maes was talking about his wedding anniversary celebration… thing.”

It’s impossible to make heads or tails of where this conversation is leading. “Did they recently celebrate?”

Roy shakes his head. “Nah, it’s next month. Normally they would just throw a party like the one yesterday, but for whatever reason the two of them decided to basically have a big vow renewal ceremony back where they were married - in Aerugo. The original wedding party is all invited, and I was Maes’ best man. I think it’s three or four days on San Clavel - just off the coast of the mainland. Last time I talked to Maes about it was a couple of months ago and…” he laughs sheepishly, “I must admit it didn’t cross my mind  _ then  _ that we’d end up where we are  _ now _ .”

She’s embarrassingly slow on the uptake. “So you’d be going to that next month then?” 

“With you, hopefully.” He says it like he’s testing out the answer, uncharacteristically unsure. “I’ll find out the exact dates from Maes tomorrow, but I would really like it if you would come along with me.” It’s unclear where the unease comes from in his tone, but she dismisses it as he continues. “You don’t need to decide just yet. I only ask that you give it some thought.” Riza nods tentatively, swallowing down the myriad of questions buzzing on the tip of her tongue. 

He clears his throat, before reaching for the brown parcel she had spied before. It’s wrapped plainly, and Riza would say there seems to be an air of indecision to the way he passes it to her.  She accepts it hesitantly, raising an eyebrow. He’s  _ nervous _ , she realises, not recognising the emotion for what it is on his face. Riza supposes she should be flattered that it’s not just her feeling this way, but curiosity wins over her wish to reassure him. She’s quick about unwrapping it, pushing away tissue paper to reveal a worn leather cover, gold leaf lettering faded but still legible in the light above them in the park.

_ Pablo Neruda. Collected Poems. _

Her fingers brush over the leather and the letters imprinted in gold. She opens the cover, almost ready to pinch herself. “Is this…”

He leans in to tell her, “I went scouring the bookstores this morning. I was lucky enough to come across this one - the woman said it was a first edition.” 

Her index finger pass over the publication date as he explains, somehow above the loud drumming in her heated ears. She blinks and the tears welling in her eyes escape from the pooling. She catches it before it streams completely down her face and she scoffs, then smiles. “You… you got me a first edition?” To say she’s incredulous would be an understatement. It had been a chance encounter in a bookstore when she was twelve, on an errand from her father to scour the academic journals in the second-hand bookshops in their town, and the anthology had been stuffed away incorrectly - a purchase that had become ultimately second-guessed. 

Her father never knew of her small rebellion, of how she spent thousand cenz on a book that held no academic value because he’d see it as a  _ waste _ . In the private, comfortable quiet of her room, Riza learned there were other values in words beyond articulating arguments and cold hypotheses. She learned how to lose herself in phrases and prose worlds away from the erratic, unpredictable moods of the man down the dark and dilapidated hallway. 

Though her collection expanded rapidly following her shipment to boarding school, the old anthology was the last link she had to a life with a little less struggles. It was one of the first she purchased and though her untrained eyes didn’t capture the context of Neruda’s phrases then, she still keenly felt the emotion struggling desperately to jump out from the words. The old tome itself struggles less, tucked away in a shoebox in a million unsorted and ruined pages. It was probably healthy to finally let go of that final, fragmented connection, and realistically, she probably never would. Passing her hand over the cover once more, he probably doesn’t realize he’s given her a relic of the most intimate variety. She doesn’t know how to feel about herself and she chokes to even give it thought. Only that her mind makes comparisons of this put together, cleaner,  _ clearer _ anthology to the broken one hiding underneath a box under her bed and the conclusion has yet to be uttered. 

“A while ago, you said your book came apart,” he says with the subtlest hints of an anxious edge, still awaiting her reaction. “I thought that, maybe, you’d enjoy a rare find like this even if it isn’t the exact copy.”

Riza realises that she still hasn’t responded yet, too overcome by this gesture. “You’re  _ ridiculous _ ,” she manages finally, failing to blink the tears away. Instead, they run down her cheeks freely but she’s past the point of caring to wipe them away now, too transfixed with the book in her lap. “I can’t believe you went to all this trouble,” she chokes physically on her words towards the end, the sentence tapering off into a whisper. 

“Is it trouble if  _ wanted _ to, Riza?” She hears him sigh in relief. “I mean, if we’re being realistic, you’re the kind of trouble that’s worth it.”

His tie crumples in her fist as she grapples it to tug him closer and she kisses him then. She can feel him smiling under her lips, and it forms into a full-fledged grin - dimples and all - when she pulls back a little. 

“I chose right then?” he murmurs.

Riza nods, smiling as well as she leans in once more to taste the sugar on his lips. “You did. Thank you, Roy.”

His thumbs stroke her cheekbones, wiping away the tears lingering on her skin. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

She laughs, somewhat embarrassed. “They’re good tears,I promise. This is… the best gift I have ever been gifted.” 

His arm curls around her neck and he hugs her close to him. Riza feels his lips press against her hair. “Really?” He doesn’t sound… surprised, but there’s an element of sympathy woven through.

She nods, thumbs rubbing the well-worn leather grooves of the cover. In hindsight, perhaps she shouldn’t be so surprised. This was not the first time he had proven to her that he paid attention to her, beyond what she divulged herself. It’s a curious feeling, to be made aware of that fact. For so long, Riza’s only considered Rebecca to be a person who genuinely cares about her, picks up on the small details that get overlooked in day-to-day conversation. It’s not like she couldn’t say the same for him though - she knows he prefers his coffee beans with a dark roast, that he only smokes cigarettes when he’s stressed. 

It’s another small but profound realisation for her tonight, and she tucks it away with the others to pour over later.

He checks the time on his watch and tells her that they still have time for one last thing. 

“There’s more?” 

“Just one more.”

* * *

The house is dark when they return. Once lively with a family or even a party just the night before, it is still and shadowy now. He doesn’t bother with the lights, leading along hallways that are becoming familiar. The moonlight spilling through the windows puts everything into high contrast - while his suit is a deep, inky black, his skin almost glows as they pass through the lounge. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the sudden confidence she has as a stranger in a strange city, but Riza thinks he is the most beautiful person she has ever laid eyes on.

She recognizes the guest bedroom door in the faint light. The interior is familiar too - privately, Riza had been… apprehensive of the fact that Roy had possibly enlisted in the efforts of his best friend for this evening. Not that she wouldn’t have been grateful for what would’ve been an impressive feat by Hughes, if Elicia’s birthday was anything to go by, but Riza felt awkward knowing that  _ he  _ would be well aware of what she planned to do to his best friend tonight.

Riza hones in on the edge of the bed and breathes out in relief a little louder than she expected when she sits. She arches her foot inside the shoe where it feels cramped and constricted. 

Roy shuts the door behind him quietly and walks toward her. He startles her by kneeling in front of the bed, hands around her foot, and frees her from the shoes. 

“Still vying for brownie points?” Riza asks, trying not to sound breathless from the gesture. 

“Mm, no. Only trying to make you comfortable for putting you in those in the first place.” The other shoe falls to the floor with a thunk. Roy stands and extends his hand out for her. 

Visibly confused, she takes his hand regardless. His hand engulfs hers, and it occurs to her then that they’ve never properly held hands as the other settles on her hip. There’s no music - well, none that Riza can hear, certainly - but they sway nonetheless. It’s far too easy for her to close her eyes and rest her head against his chest, listening intently for the beat of his heart. This type of intimacy is foreign to her - strange in a way that is confusing as it is desirable. True, he makes her toes curl on a regular basis - but  _ this _ , this is perhaps more dangerous than his tongue or his fingers.

She has become used to his kisses in the morning; sleepy, searching soft presses of his lips against her own. She has grown accustomed to the way he orbits around her in their quiet hours of downtime, fingers never quite stilling on her skin. She falls asleep to the smell of his cologne and soap, and steals his sweatshirts when she can’t stay over.

To say she has been bewitched would be a falsehood, because Riza knows she has met him halfway willingly.

She isn’t sure how long they stay there, swaying slowly in the quiet of the bedroom. She feels, more than hears Roy swallow, and when she pulls back to look up at him he’s watching her with what she can only describe as bedroom eyes.

“Do you remember, in the library, when you recited me that-” he breathes in and looks off to the middle distance to find the word he’s looking for, “ _ -inappropriate _ poem?” 

Riza scoffs, curving it off while it a smile at the memory. “I’d never do such a thing unless I was specifically asked to.” 

He gives her a sharp look, one with narrowed eyes and thinned lips, but then he veers the conversation away from silly banter, she notices. His hands drop from her own and very softly, he tilts her jaw up, thumb barely exerting pressure. “So, you do remember.”

“I might,” she replies, and the volume of her words dip lower to a whisper 

He matches it. “I only brought it up because I thought I might return the favor.” Slow and tantalizing, a finger from each hand glide over the skin of her back where the dress exposes skin unmarred. He continues down and over the boundary of her dress, continuing until he reaches her lower back, and smoothly brings down the zipper.  

A great deal of constitution is required to resist buckling at the knees. Riza distracts herself by feeling the fine texture on the lapels of his suit. “Is that right?” 

“Mhm.” Her fingers feel the vibration of his response. 

“And may I ask which?”

Then he lets her go and the room suddenly feels cold and unpleasant and bright. Roy walks over to the dial that adjusts the intensity of the lighting to a just barely visible level, where she can barely discern the lines of his face. 

The silhouette of Roy tugs at the knot of his tie until it is loosened. He leaves a finger hooked onto it as he pauses to speak again.

_ “Yo te he nombrado reina.” _

The chills flash along the surface of her skin, awakening every bud lulled to sleep by food, drink and low light. It’s the lilt that escapes in the early morning breaks loose and says  _ here I am -  _ bursting through like sunshine. It’s a different voice altogether but yet it’s still him. She stands there, still, because the cogs have been slowed by the sweet Aerugan wine. She inhales sharply when the translation appears in her head because she knows this one already, by memory, by heart, that it might as well be burned into her skin:

_ I have named you queen. _

Fitting that he’d gift her the priceless book, but to recite it to her in the original language... the story of the poem swiftly goes through her mind: the gist of it being that the narrator has named his lover queen, despite the comparisons they both might notice or how she might feel in the humdrum of casual life. There’s a crown she doesn’t see but he does because of how she makes him feel: because he’s named her  _ his queen _ . The abridged data retrieval in her mind is stopped as he turns to her, walks towards her until he is in front of her and his features are more noticeable this close.

_ “Hay más altas que tú, más alta.”  _ He smiles tenderly, brushing bangs away from her wide-eyed face, leans in to kiss her cheek and whispers against it, “ _ Hay más altas que tú, más altas.” _ His hair tickles her sensitive skin almost as much as the line of kisses he leaves in the wake of his lips to her neck. “ _ Hay más puras que tú, más puras.”  _

The dress that clings on only by the straps on her shoulders are delicately pulled down, trapped just under her breasts by her elbows. Her bent arms straighten on their own and it falls like red water, pooling around her feet. His fingers glide up, parallel to the dip of her back, over the scars that were so tactfully covered before. She closes her eyes. Her heart pounds against her chest and in her ears and thrums throughout her body. She is a statue; no - a tree, a sapling - thin and flimsy, barely rooted to the threads of the carpet. Riza exhales; sighs with the next line:

“ _ Hay más bellas que tú, más bellas. _ ” His hands are hot against her skin. She barely has enough working neurons firing off to work the buttons of his shirt and be closer to him. They all seem to shut down when he murmurs in her ear, in English: “But you are the queen.” 

She steps back at his gentle nudge and the bed is closer than she had imagined. She breathes out something that sounds like  _ “that’s not fair” _ but it’s slurred and none of it having to do with alcohol. She sees his face and only raises knowing eyebrow in response. For a moment, she appreciates the commitment to reciting the poem, but that was only a stanza. She is stirred from the sensation, her skin is thrumming and her nerves are heightened and dulled at the same time. The beating of her heart is transporting blood faster through her body, making her blush deeply, making her react. She holds the air in her lungs as she lies back against the bed that isn’t hers, in a room that isn’t hers, for a man calling her his. 

His shirt falls to the floor, fluttering down like her dress and her hands want nothing more than the feel the temperature of his skin, to feel the push-pull of his muscles. He has other plans. With only one leg resting on the edge of the bed the belt from his pants unbuckle and he only unbuttons his dress pants without taking them off. The lines from his well pronounced hip bones guide her hungry gaze down to an area blocked from view.

She is brought back to attention when he hovers over her and the back his hand glides down from her sternum in between the valley of her breasts to her navel; his eyes follow this journey as if he’s marveling her in the middle of his recital. “ _ Cuando vas por las calles, nadie te reconoce. Nadie ve tu corona de cristal, nadie mira - la alfombra de oro rojo.”  _ He moves in closer and she is enthralled by the performance, this birthday gift, that she gasps as he slips in between her legs and she parts them willingly. He touches over the fabric, flicking ever so lightly over the bud urging her to bloom from pleasure. 

She’s never been so grateful for the lack of teasing from him. Unhurriedly, his fingers slip under near the lace of her underwear. The heat becomes embarrassingly obvious when his hand inches closer, separating the wet cloth trapping it in from her. She sees the movement in his neck as he swallows when they both realize how turned on she is, as if it weren’t obvious before. Perhaps the physical affirmation was an important clue in itself as well. 

Riza doesn’t register the following words. She hears the sounds, the musical pronunciation of his tongue in Spanish. Her mind otherwise swims from his touch. Two fingers rub in between her lips; lubricating themselves plenty, she imagines, but still grazing over her clit, barely brushing where she wants _ needs _ his touch. The wine has gone to her head and makes her react more. Her breath grows deeper, her back arches ever so slightly towards him. She feels his lips murmur against her breast before passing his tongue over her peaked nipple. Once, then again, and again, with a suckle her and a tender bite there. The ache at her core builds from these sprinkle of teases.  She feels it in her lower abdomen with a building pressure she’s familiar with by now. Any attempts she makes to touch him, to connect with him, to reciprocate and share with him they way he’s making her feel, is swatted away and she is left to only clutch the sheets and beg for clemency. 

The pleas of  _ touch me, finger me, fuck me _ are lost in her throat. His caresses are beautiful in their own right; tender and loving, sensual; they are fitting to the poem he recites. Each stroke in rhythm with the words and syllables. It isn’t enough to make her cum, but she gets wetter each time he teases around her entrance, the nerves around her nipples peak just a little more and her blood rushes. She is kept in a pleasurable limbo where he dictates the pace. 

He is merciful. He gives her what she wants. It’s her birthday after all. Mouth opens, jaw unhinges, and her head turns to the side as she feels his fingers enter her and her throat sounds out a moan. Her fingers clutch the sheets again and she’s uncaring of how strands of her hair are caught up with it and pulled harshly. His other hand grabs her chin and turns it toward him to capture her lips. Try as she might to kiss him, her mouth mewls and sighs, barely processing as he works his fingers in and out of her. 

Against her lips, he says, “ _ Y cuando asomas- _ ” A soft gasp. “ _ Suenan todo los rios- _ ” A prolonged exhale. “ _ En mi cuerpo- _ ”  A nibble to her lips. “ _ Sacuden. _ ” She coils, knuckles white; tightens. A moment. Releases. And it ripples across her body like the thrum of her heart. Riza feels his triumphant smile on her lips. “ _ El cielo la campanas. _ ”

She shudders when he removes his fingers from her. Her head tilts to the side as she catches her breath. He hooks his fingers over the hem of her underwear and she aids in their removal by lifting her hips. The edge of his fingernails graze the skin of her legs and she licks her lips. 

“ _ Y un himno llena el mundo. _ ”

There’s a soft thump of clothing hitting the floor. He climbs over her and they both try to move toward the end of the bed but simultaneously give up in the middle of it instead. The slow, measured, tempered mannerisms and the way he looks at her and the way he recites her this poem tells her a different way this… coupling will go down, because suddenly, the word “fucking” doesn’t seemed to capture it accurately in her buzzed, post-orgasm mind. 

He enters her in the way he’s done many times before over and over again. But his groan is different. The way his nails embed into her skin is different. It makes her sigh sweetly and it makes her toes curl. Her fingers lose themselves in his hair. 

“ _ Solo tu y yo.” _

It’s a miracle he maintains the same cadence, but her eyes open for a different reason.

_ “Solo tu y yo.”  _ He pauses, buried in the crook of her neck. “ _ Amor mio.”  _ The curling of his fingers are a subtle ordeal, but she notices. He holds her tighter and her throat becomes constricted for an entirely different reason. 

“ _ Lo escuchamos.”  _

His voice is sin. His mouth too; his fingers; his  _ hips _ . 

He makes no move to shift off her: not that she’s going to let him. Her legs are still tightly wound around his hips. His weight on her is comfortable, not suffocating, and Riza closes her eyes to better focus on the feeling of her heartbeat pulsing in her fingertips. 

_ Only you and I, you and I, my love, listen to it. _

_ La Reina _ is not her favourite Neruda piece, but after that little show it could quickly become that. Absently, she adjusts her hips against his own, drags her fingers through his hair, damp with sweat.

“How long have you been sitting on that?” she asks breathlessly. Roy groans, burrows his head more firmly into her neck. 

_ "Woman," _ he manages, his voice more of a vibration than sound, "give me a minute."

Riza snorts, but falls quiet. There's a strange sense of contentment washing over her, despite the blooming warmth lingering in her belly. His fingers, like hers, don't settle: instead they wander, firm touches that move over her muscle and bone.

_ You and I, my love. _

Part of her doesn't want to examine it too deeply. She isn't sure whether she's scared that it will reveal something she's been ignoring, or that she will realise something that previously was unknown to her. It's just a poem right?

Just a poem that he memorised in his native tongue, recited to her in said native tongue, and made sure to emphasise wholeheartedly that said poem was  _ firmly about her _ . It is seduction of the highest calibre, and even as she lies there, basking in the sensations of him over her and still in her, Riza finds herself surprised with how she still wants more from him.

_ So greedy. _

A part of her, months ago, would be shocked at her boldness, at how assertive she is in going after what she wants, but all she can bring herself to focus on is what she now realises she's missed out on. Feelings and emotional displays aside, here is a man who has thoroughly fucked her and not only that, done said fucking in such a way to ensure she's ruined from this point on. Being under him like this only makes her hungry for more - more of him, his mouth, his tongue, his hips: and all the breath leaves her in one violent exhale as he shifts above her, before thrusting deeper once more.

_ Fuck. _

Her nails scratch and scrape at the nape of his neck, fingers wrap themselves around his sweat-slicked hair as his mouth moves along from the taut muscles of her shoulders to the sensitised ones of her neck. Goosebumps raise on her flesh as his breath passes over, lips brushing over the skin behind her ear. She's uncaring of how she whimpers - yes, she's whimpering, because his right hand has snuck back down to her clit and the calm, unhurried way he's rubbing at it has her curling her toes and tensing her whole frame against his.

His mouth finds hers once more, and his teeth nibble on her lower lip, the pressure so good and right and -

Slowly, painstakingly, his hips shift against hers, and then again, and again. This time it's even more unhurried than the last - but nonetheless Riza feels the pressure rise in her belly, curl around and spread out through her. It is, in some ways, even more difficult to grapple with than when his hips are punishing and quick. This slow burn, this constant constant friction of him against her, stretching her and filling her, making her breath hitch with every thrust in - it frightens her how good this feels, how right it feels and how she doesn't ever want him to stop.

She has never been one for living in the moment: her whole life has been about looking forward, moving beyond the place where she is currently. To want to remain, as she is, content and happy, is entirely unfamiliar. 

Roy draws her from her thoughts as an arm shifts under her waist, pulling her closer. He continues that same, unhurried pace, and Riza lets herself curl around him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. The subsequent orgasm is unhurried, cresting over her pleasantly. She feels Roy shudder above her, dropping his head next to her, pressing soft kisses to the meeting of her neck and shoulder. Her heartbeat thumps in her fingertips.

She could happily fall asleep like this, but after a while - a few minutes, maybe more, Riza isn’t keeping tabs - he shifts off her, pushing himself off the bed. She watches him disappear into the ensuite, hears the sound of the taps running. He returns a few minutes later, damp flannel in hand. 

It doesn’t strike her as strange that they’ve yet to break the quiet that’s settled over them, not when the feeling of his hands is back on her. He’s attentive in his cleanup, and Riza is quick to kiss him as he settles back down, hands stroking the skin of his cheekbones. She can still taste a hint of sugar on his lips as she pushes back his damp hair.

“Good?” he asks her softly. She recognises the tone he uses more than the word itself - a contented one, the kind she associates with him in the quiet, late hours of the evening, one with which she is becoming more intimately familiar with. 

“Yes.” She smiles at him, deeply enjoying the way the corners of his eyes crinkle in turn. He’s been doing a lot of that lately: watching her, clearly liking what he sees. Normally she would also say the same - he was a  _ fine _ specimen of the lesser sex - but over the course of the last couple of days Riza feels like she’s barely had any time with him to herself. Perhaps because she is so used to being able to monopolise his time, this foray into what a ‘normal’ relationship operates like is somewhat alien to her.

It’s just different, she supposes. She’s dated before - perhaps ‘tried’ is a better explanation - and she’s never allowed herself to get a point of emotional vulnerability… well, until now. Roy Mustang has a sneaky way of settling himself deep under her skin, whether it be through those endearing smiles, or caustic comments as he bitches his way through multiple deadlines. So much of their early relationship - if you could even call it that - was so firmly rooted in the physicality and compatibility between them that even time spent like this, enjoying the afterglow in the guest room of his best friend’s apartment after an honest-to-god  _ date _ in Central City, seems like a massive leap towards something bigger… something more concrete. 

It’s terrifying and it’s not.  _ So many _ of the barriers she’s put up to keep people out - they no longer exist in the same prickly way they used to do. He has changed her irrevocably, and entirely for the better. She adjusts the position of her head on his arm, fingers wandering aimlessly on the small stretch of skin between his bicep and deltoid.

His eyebrow raises lazily. “I can hear you thinking,” he murmurs. His fingers press in between the spaces of her ribcage, following the lines of her bone. “What is it?”

“It’s just…” Riza falters, struggling to find the right words to describe her jumbled thoughts. The invitation to Aerugo is at the forefront, but that’s not what she worried about - not yet, certainly. Part of her knows that they’re hurtling towards some sort of inevitability, and even if she cannot find the words here, right now in this space, they won’t be lost in the ether forever. He’s so good at reading what she means in between the lines, but she recognises now that it shouldn’t always be like that.

Some things are worth saying out loud.

Riza wets her lips with her tongue, and tries again. “This whole thing is new. Scary. It’s unfamiliar.”

His brow furrows. “Central?”

The tension she didn’t realise she was holding is let out in a swift exhale of giggles. Riza swats at his chest, shaking with laughter. “No! I meant -” she gestures rapidly between them with her hand. “This. Us. It’s scary but it’s also  _ not _ , and I know I’m not making a lot of sense right now but-”

His smile is impossibly brighter now, and he shifts himself slightly closer, capturing her gesticulating hand within his own. “You are-”

His smile is infectious, and the laughter bubbles out of her unimpeded. “No! Just - just let me say this please? I  _ know _ you know but I  _ want _ to say this, okay?” she huffs, impatient and bemused. Roy to his credit keeps quiet, but never loses the grin.

Riza leans her weight on her arm, and chews on her bottom lip, trying to find the right words to explain herself. “If- if the  _ me  _ from a year ago could see the me  _ now _ , she wouldn’t recognise me. She’d never dare let herself be in this situation - with you, with anybody, to be frank - but that’s the point I’m trying to make. I’m no longer  _ her _ . That Riza was… scared, and she used that fear to justify all the walls she built and all the people she pushed away. She didn’t try, because in her eyes-” the words spill out of her quickly, threatening to run over themselves in her haste to explain, “-nobody tried for her. But you challenged that reasoning.” Riza swallows thickly. 

“You have proven again and again that she - that  _ I _ \- was worth something, was worth it to someone.” She’s too nervous to meet his eyes right now, but the reassuring squeeze from his hand enclosing hers spurs her on. “You’ve made me a better person because of it. And for that I am extremely grateful.” 

Her knuckles are brought up to his mouth: the tenderest of kisses is brushed against them. “You’re very welcome. I would add that the same could be said of you as well.”

“Yeah?”

Roy nods slowly. “Absolutely. The inception of our relationship notwithstanding… I certainly wouldn’t be as happy as I am now without you in my life.”

Although the air in the bedroom is warm, Riza still feels her face grow warmer. “Imagine though,” she teases, “if somehow we had managed to keep up appearances. The library was just another near miss.”

Roy snorts and shakes his head, focusing intently on the way her fingers align with his between them. “You might’ve managed. I was long gone.”

A perverse sense of pride blooms in her chest. “I don’t know about that,” she replies, flexing her fingers within his grip. “Class was torture enough even while knowing I just had to keep my head down for a few hours at a time. I think if I had to sit there while not knowing if I was just imagining things or…” Riza trails off, tucks her arm under her head. 

“Is it terrible for me to be glad we never let it get that far?”

“Probably.” She blinks up at him, only just making out his face in the dim light. “But I’m glad we didn’t too.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I have named you queen.  
>  There are taller than you, taller.  
> There are purer than you, purer.  
> There are lovelier than you, lovelier.  
> But you are the queen._
> 
> _When you go through the streets  
>  No one recognizes you.  
> No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks  
> At the carpet of red gold  
> That you tread as you pass,  
> The nonexistent carpet._
> 
> _And when you appear  
>  All the rivers sound  
> In my body, bells  
> Shake the sky,  
> And a hymn fills the world._
> 
> _Only you and I,  
>  Only you and I, my love,  
> Listen to it._


	18. soften the parts that we have lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy 2k19 everyone!!!! we wanted to get this out on the anniversary of the publishing, but the holidays always get busy haha. we hope u enjoy this new chapter!!!!! it's crazy to think it's been a year since this whole adventure started, and i cannot stress enough how much mar and i appreciate each and every one of u for all the support u have given us. we're truly, truly blessed.
> 
> (also, shout out to @colonelhotstuff. happy birthday!!!!! we're sorry we couldn't make it on time <33)
> 
> the supremely talented [b-griveros](http://b-griveros.tumblr.com/) drew us some art for this chapter. y'all are gonna LOVE it, i can tell. babs, ty for making our vision come to life. we are incredibly indebted to u, pequeña!
> 
> (kiana azizian, infinite)

Central City is cool and breezy the following morning despite the bright sunshine beating down, and the air is even cooler in the underground levels of the parking garage. Riza swings in her backpack into the trunk of the rental car with the rest of their belongings. Her eyes feel puffy from the early rise and tired, but she looks forward to sleeping in her own bed - or, rather, a bed that’s familiar to her. They had said their goodbyes upstairs and poor Elicia didn’t want to let go of Roy until she was swayed with good parenting. She even waved a goodbye to Riza in between tears that Gracia assured was her developing melodrama.

“Is that everything?”

“I believe so.” Roy answers after the slam of the trunk door. He gets into the driver’s seat and her into the passenger seat when she sees Maes in the wing mirror flailing an arm and carrying a medium-sized cardboard box with him.

“Roy,” she says abruptly to catch his attention and points to the rear-view mirror.

“What the-” He gets out, leaving the car door open. “I’m sorry, mister. I don’t have any change.”

From where she sits, she can clearly see the Maes’ red face from making the trip and running to find them. He scoffs and shoves the box he carries into Roy’s arms with one swift gesture.  _“These,_  forgotten trinkets, are yours.”

Roy digs around the box and raises his eyebrows, recognition cresting over his face and impressed with seeing his old things. “Where’d you dig these up?”

“We started,” he wheezes, needing a moment. “Shut up, your shit is heavy. We started clearing out the extra study room and we found these buried away.”

Roy’s tone is teasing. “Clearing out the study? Hopefully to make way for a gym. Or at least a treadmill, buddy. Cardio goes a long way.”

“No.” Maes glares at him and straightens up from bending over his knees.  He pushes his glasses back up his nose. “Nothing’s set in stone yet. Elicia’s barely turned three, but we’re trying.”

Roy opens the car door behind his and the box is hastily shoved into the seat. The contents shift and the poorly closed box shows her a bunch of papers. Journals, she suspects. When she looks up, Roy is patting his best friend encouragingly. “That’s really good news,” he says; the pride suffuses through his tone. She can’t see it but she can hear the smile on his face. “And know that the offer still stands, should anything happen.”

Maes gives him a humbled smile in return. “I appreciate that. I think this time we’ll be better prepared; no, we  _are_  better prepared. Knowing is half the battle. But don’t let me hold you up. I’ll keep you updated.”

Riza smiles as they hug goodbye, again.

“Stay safe,” Maes tells him, before ducking his head into the car and winking at her. “Be good, Riza.”

She waves back. “No promises there.” She moves to figure out where the AUX port is on the radio when she hears Maes speak again.

“She called. Last night.” His tone is quieter. It doesn’t resound off the concrete like it was a minute ago but the open car door lets the sound flow in regardless. “Just wanted to give you the heads up in case of, well, anything.”

Roy sighs. “I’m sure she has. I’ve made myself as clear as I can.”

“I know you have. Just be careful, mate.”

The silence stretches on, almost to the point of uncomfortable. “I’ll do my best.”

The door shuts swiftly as he gets in. Maes knocks the metal frame of the car as they drive off, arm raised in a final farewell.

“What was that about?”

Roy has this dazed look on his face, unfaltering even as they reach the blinding rays of the morning sun as they exit the garage. It takes him a moment to ground himself. “Oh, nothing. It’s just that…” As he says it, he almost looks like a kid himself. “They’re trying for another kid.”

She thinks he looks adorable. “Oh! That’s nice. You must be so ecstatic to be a godfather again.”

He shrugs, trying to downplay the smitten smile on his face. “I just think it’s exciting for them. There were difficulties following Elicia’s birth and it’s admirable that she’s willing to go through that again, knowing the risk.”

Riza holds her tongue on the thoughts of adoption and foster care, reminding herself a single couple do not have the power to change the entire system. “Yes, it sounds very brave,” she replies. “And I think Elicia will be happy to have a little brother or sister.”

“I think so too. But, how are you? You sound a little down.”

Riza looks at him warily and deflects just as quickly. “I think I’m still tired, I don’t think my night was very restful.” In anticipation to his response, she amends, “And please don’t say that it was because of your “ _hot lovin”_  that kept me up.”

He snorts and laughter laces his words. “I wouldn’t have used that  _exact_ phrase, but you caught me. Why don’t you nap? We’re ways away from home yet.”

“I think I will.” She leans the seat back, getting herself comfortable. “And I know how you operate...sir.”

* * *

She wakes up and there are pastures passing them by. Cow, windmills and craggy hills in every direction. The Eastern provinces might be simpler than their neighbours, but there’s a simple kind of beautiful that exists here and Riza wouldn’t change it for the world.

“Good morning.”

Riza inhales deeply. “How long was I out?”

Roy hums. “I’d say hour-and-a-half, two hours tops.”

She blinks, trying to rid herself of the sleep in her eyes. “Where are we?”

“We’re about to cross into the Eastern section. Moomoo cows as far as the eye can see for another hour or so.”

Riza raises an eyebrow. “Moomoo cows?”

“Do you...not… call them that? How do you know what kind of noise they make if you don’t preface it with that?”

She snickers as she peers out the car window. “I think your nickname for them is very valid, Professor. Does your colleague Elicia call them that too?”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

Riza’s face scrunches up when the topic of Aerugo suddenly crosses her mind. She figures now would be a good a time as any. “So… Aerugo.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she spies him perking up in his seat. “Yes?”

“Are they getting married again? What’s the whole deal with that?”

“Yes, that’s basically what constitutes as a vow renewal.”

“But I thought vow renewals were something you did when you’ve been married for decades. Not after a few years.”

Roy snorts. “You underestimate what excuses people will give to justify a  _pachanga_. Er, fiesta, party.”

“Wait, what was that first word you used?”

 _“Pachanga. Fiesta_  just doesn’t have the right emotion behind it. Anyway, parties like the ones for children’s birthday, like Elicia’s, aren’t rare. The same people would be at another relative’s kids’ communion, baptism, kindergarten graduation and nobody is going to want to be the person tearing down a declaration of love. It’s quite ingenious, really.”

“Sounds like you guys just like to...pachanga?”

“Yes, in some instances it can be used as a verb.”

“So, it’s just the ceremony?”

Roy’s head tilts side to side, considering the question. “No. Well, kind of. It’s a long weekend on an island, getting together with a group of close friends. The amount of people there won’t be as many as they had at Elicia’s birthday party. Obviously not everyone can drop what they’re doing at the drop of a hat to spend a week on vacation but most are gonna try for a few days at least.”

“Will you?”

“I’d like to. The last time I visited Aerugo was for their wedding. I doubt a lot has changed but it’s a beautiful place. The colors are vibrant there and pictures cannot do it justice. From what I remember, at least.” He smirks at some memory. “There was a  _lot_  of wine involved last time.”

Riza hums thoughtfully. “Sounds like it will be a good time.”

His eyes slide to hers. “It should be. Even more so if you accompany me.”

She can’t help it - the incredulous laughter leaves her before she has a chance to consider how that could sound. “Right. I’ll just find the spare two-hundred thousands cenz lying around, shall I?”

He does a good job of keeping his face neutral, but Riza knows a hurt tone when she hears it. “I’m only heartless when it comes to grading, Riza. You would be my plus one.”

“No, that’s - that’s too much money. I couldn’t let you waste-  _spend_  that kind of money on me.”

Roy lets out a frustrated sigh that pushes the hair out of his eyes. “This isn’t about me trying to  _shame_  you because I have disposable income and you don’t - I  _want_ you to come with me. I don’t like that I can’t just take you out for a nice dinner whenever I like, or even go catch a movie with you. Y’know - the things that every other couple gets to do without fear. But then opportunities like these come up, and it’s like some big neon sign telling me that  _here’s the chance you’ve been waiting for, take it_. And even if we could go out on dates like normal people I’d still want you to come with me anyway.”

His impassioned response gives her pause. It’s resolute, adamant, but there’s something that burrows at her, disallowing her to be swayed. It takes her a moment to find her response.

“Is it really about the money?”

 _“Yes!_ And… no,” she admits ruefully.

“Gracia mentioned Aubrey.”

Riza nods slowly, letting him fill in that space and going with that flow. “It was quite the ambush, for lack of a better word. And I wasn’t about to monopolize your time simply because I felt uncomfortable amongst people I didn’t know. As tempting as it was to do.”

“I know it can feel intimidating and people were just interested because I’ve lost contact with a lot of them. You were a symbol as much as an explanation as to why that was.”

It pains her to admit that he has a solid argument. “Surely there was more talk than that.”

“Quite possibly. I wasn’t interested in hearing it.”

She falls silent.

“Shall I paint you a picture?”

She turns her head to look back at him. “Of what?”

“Aerugo. What you’ll be missing out on.”

“What could I possibly be missing that I can’t find in East City?”

He doesn’t vocalise it, but she knows he's thinking  _then let me take you_. “The ocean, for starters. The miles and miles of vineyards. It’s an island, actually - off the coast. The place is dotted with old churches tucked away. The food is to die for, and the views even more so.” His voice takes on a reminiscing lilt, the corners of his lips turning up in memory. “We’d hire out one of the old villas overlooking the bay. Freshly pressed coffee and fruits for breakfast. Go sailing in the morning and drink ourselves silly in the afternoon.”

“You can sail?”

“I’d teach you - you’d be a natural at it, I’d wager.”

Riza bites her lip. “I don’t even have a passport.”

“Then we’ll figure that out once we get back home.” His free hand reaches for hers and she takes it. “I mean it when I say I’ll pay for what you need.”

He makes it sound so  _simple_.

She starts slow, trying to sort out the muddled threads in her head into an articulation that is cohesive. “I know classes won’t take much of my time now that the semester is over…”

He nods once and slow as he elongates the  _i_  in “Right”.

She purses her lips and twists her fingers together tightly. How does she explain what waits for her at a psychiatric facility? “But I don’t think it would responsible of me to simply drop everything and not expect there to be consequences waiting at the end.”

“Consequences like?”

“I do have prior commitments that I can’t just rearrange just like that.” She waves her hand, out of his grip, for emphasis.

“Which commitments?”

Maybe she’s imagining it, maybe she’s  _wanting_ to imagine it, but Roy’s tone cuts through harshly. She can’t understand his line of questioning -  _why_  he needs to question her at all in the first place.

“I’m not outright saying  _no_ , Roy, but I can’t just give you an answer and then let the chips fall where they may.”

“I agree and I’m not saying you should. Just,” He adjusts his tone. “I’m only curious about these arrangements you have. It’s caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

She looks out the window. “Just because I spend a lot of my time with you, doesn’t mean I don’t have a life outside of you.”

From the corner of her eye she can see his jaw drop. “Riza, that’s not, that’s not what I-  _why_ are you being so cagey about this?”

“Cagey how?” She bites her tongue, feeling the guilty pleasure of her pettiness.

Frustration seeps into his voice. “Dancing around answers, being particularly defensive about this. Like you’re hiding something.”

“You’re one to talk.” Riza hears the creak of leather from the steering wheel as its gripped harder in his hands. She wets her lips and sighs, because he has a point. This is something so hurtful that she’s bore alone in the past. She doesn’t want anyone to use it against her; as if her father’s failings or his state of mind reflects directly on her. “I can’t just drop plans to see my father. Not…not when they take weeks to plan out. You’ve known about this for a while, so when were you going to ask me?”

Roy frowns. “I wanted to wait until your grades were released. If this ever comes back to bite us I didn’t want there to be any insinuations from  _anybody_  that I used an overseas holiday as a means to tempt you or buy your silence.”

“Then tell me what the game plan is, Roy. I should know.”

He clears his throat. “If, at the bottom of all this, this is something you want to do, to come with me, then I’ll help you get it handled.”

“How do you mean?”

He words it carefully. “If your worries are missing an opportunity to visit your father and if it’s within the scope of things you want to do, then perhaps you could reschedule? Maybe see him sooner then, before we leave, than push it out until after the fact.”

She falls silent again, not having considered the option. The visits were usually so static, so concrete in her schedule that changing the dates seemed inconceivable. Anxiety and trepidation clouded her whenever thoughts about visits came up. There were so many variable to consider and this sporadic invitation was creating uncomfortable waves.

“I won’t badger you about it again, but I will ask about it later this week, just so I know where you are in your headspace. Does that sound fair?”

She nods and concedes for now. “I’ll give them a call.”

The rest of the car ride is quiet until the pastures turn into housing developments and suburbs. It’s just past noon when they finally reach his place, and Riza is utterly grateful. The nap, while nice, had given her an awkward crick in her back and it isn’t until she extends her body out fully that she can feel the tense muscles relaxing. They had picked up some Xingese takeaway once they had reached the city limits, and she is more than ready to demolish some quality fried rice.

Roy has barely opened the front door when his phone lights up and it’s kind of hilarious how quickly his face loses colour. “Oh,  _fuck.”_

“Who is it?”

He shakes his head, swiping to answer.  _“Madre,”_ he says distractedly, and then amends, “My mother” as if he meant to say it in Amestrian all along.

He walks away further into the apartment and the sounds of a very sharp voice starts talking in a volume she can hear from where she’s standing. The caller is chastising him, judging by the way he pulls the phone away from his ear. Riza figures he’ll be distracted for a while, and motions for the car keys, which he hands her absentmindedly, jabbering away in Spanish.

She leaves the takeaway on the kitchen island, sneaking one of the spring rolls as she drops back down to the carport to pick up the rest of their luggage. It’s a tight squeeze, but she manages to do it in one trip, Roy trying to stifle a laugh as she waddles down the hallway, her fingers protesting as the leather straps of his bags cut deep into her skin.

The dismount is inelegant in the bedroom. She sets down the worn cardboard box atop the bed and then drops the bags next to it without considering how close it is to the edge. The box topples off the bed and spills papers, envelopes, and folders as if it was trying to reach the sunset washed window in one final, desperate bid for daylight.

Riza kneels to the floor to gather it together and stuff them back inside the box until she gets a better look at what she’s handling. Her curiosity piques when she sees a well worn front cover of a PhD thesis with his name on it, gold embossing worn down after years in storage. Looking closer, she sees receipts and old bills mixed in with scholarly journals, dog-eared and faded.

It’s a box of things he left behind.

One of the envelopes tears from seams that has met its limits. Paper of thicker stock spill over her lap, colorful and glossy as it cascades out before she can catch it. Then she recognizes the faces. Military uniform, graduation, candids featuring a younger Maes and Roy, another with youthful optimism, and a sleeping Roy with a scraggly, marker-drawn mustache and Maes grinning at the camera with the marker in question. It’s a handful of them, but there’s a signal going off in her head, telling her this only features people she already knows. Sure, there are pictures of pictures with buddies. It’s strange that she can’t see any that feature his mother or his sisters, she thinks as she reaches for the broken envelope. Or even -

There’s a photo that remained inside, folded in half. “ _for when u miss me xoxo_ ” it reads on the back in handwriting that is somewhere between half-cursive and half-print. The imprint of a red lipstick kiss is perfectly preserved right below it.

She weighs the decision of looking at this photo in her head for a full minute and her index finger slides in between the folded sides for another. The note left behind clearly implies something suggestive, but she’d get a face to this enigma she’s been placing in the back burner for months. The other photos are returned to the box, and Riza leans back, fully resting her weight on her legs, deliberating.

Her curiosity gets the better of her and she flips the photo open. She breathes out in relief when it’s not a full nude or anything sexually explicit and private. However, Riza studies the photo and acknowledges she has come across something still incredibly  _intimate_.

The photo is casual in nature. A capture of a singular moment in time with two people in their early twenties, set in a tropical backdrop. Roy in his younger years is only discernible by the short cut of his hair. He holds a cigarette and has a smile across his face, eyes bright and youthful like all the others. He’s wearing his standard button up shirt in pink shade that looks exceptionally and surprisingly stunning on him, popping out more than anything else in the photo. And it’s also the first of any photo where he’s pictured holding a cigarette between two of his fingers. His hand is tucked into his front jean pocket. He looks carefree, confident with a cocky smile on his face. Completely unperturbed by the arms wrapped around him.

The woman standing behind him is shorter than him in stature. Half her face hides behind Roy’s shoulder, but just over the crest reveals her brown smiling eyes.  She bears a glowing café au lait complexion with brown curls short and soft enough that would make Rebecca envious. Her arms coil over his tailor-fitted shirt and she’s tucked a hand into the unbuttoned portion over his sternum and slipped it well into his shirt, undoubtedly to feel the well-defined muscle under the fabric. Her other arm is wrapped around his waist. If Riza were to guess, she imagines the image was only supposed to be a shot of Roy until she slipped into the picture and under his shirt.

For months, this woman has been an enigma with only a nickname. It’s one thing to hear stories, to be given little fragments and try to piece together an entire person. Only a nickname and now, a name and half a face. Greta, Riza surmises, stares at her, speaks to her and anyone else who would look at it with body language to corroborate the message she’s sending. It strangely transcends the time from when the picture was originally taken.

She is saying,  _he is mine_.

It’s a sick fascination for her, studying the way Greta’s arm snakes across his chest, catches on the open fabric of his shirt. Logically, Riza knows she’s getting upset over something… not  _insignificant_ , certainly, but firmly in the past, and delving further into this Pandora’s box will not make her feel any better.

All her contemplating eats up her time as his footsteps sound in the hallway and in a panic, she stuffs the picture into her back pocket. The lid of the box is hastily folded back over and she pushes it to the side of his dresser, half obscured by the shadow cast from laundry hamper.

He appears in the doorway just as she shrugs on a sweater. “Hey,” he starts, awkwardly hovering. “Look, I’m sorry about earlier in the car. That was dickish of me.”

Riza nods. “You’re okay. I was dickish too.”

Roy’s smile is small, but genuine, and he holds his phone up. “What did you want to do for dinner?”

Riza shakes her head. “I think I’ll go back to the flat after I eat. ‘Becca wanted to give me my present.”

His smile falters for a moment, clearly disappointed, but he nods. “Let me know when you want to go. I’ll drop off the rental at the same time and enter in final grades.”

The trip to her flat is subdued. Roy kisses her forehead in the goodbye, and Riza feels the photograph burn a hole in her back pocket.

* * *

When Riza opens the door, the sweet aroma of hot chocolate wafts through the air of her apartment. Rebecca is sitting on the couch, nursing a steaming mug, and is so heavily engrossed in her cellphone she doesn’t hear Riza come in. Her footsteps are light as she approaches. She’s almost succeeds until her friend realises and jerks in surprise.

 _“Shit,_ Ri-” Rebecca’s fingers slip against the mug, but manages to get a grip and sets it down quickly. She curls her body to face Riza properly. “You could have  _killed_  me,” Rebecca admonishes, dramatically placing a hand over her chest. “Is that what you want, a dead best friend?”

Riza grins broadly, feeling a sudden gratitude for her antics, and she leans down to hug her. Rebecca’s hair is still faintly damp, curls not quite suffocating her like they usually do, and fragrant. “Sorry,” she mumbles, releasing her after a moment. “I did text.”

“Did you? I got up like twenty minutes ago,” Rebecca explains after letting Riza go. “My day so far has consisted of me standing in the shower for ten minutes and another five remembering I needed to turn the kettle on if I wanted to have coffee.”

Riza checks her phone; it was quarter past four in the afternoon. “Don’t forget zoning out so hard an intruder could just walk in. Rough night studying?”

Rebecca shrugs and slides over to make room for Riza on the couch. “You could say that.” She says this with a strange quality to her voice, like the question is inherently funny.

Riza deposits her duffle bag on the sturdy coffee table they nabbed from a yard sale, mindful of the still-steaming mug, and sits on the couch. “Was your last exam today?”

“Yesterday,” she answers quickly.

Riza scrunches her brow. “Yesterday was Sunday.”

She stammers, wrinkling her face to remember, “I meant this morning. I went back to bed after it. Cut me some slack, I’ve only just woken up.”

“Here I thought this was you regularly.” Riza ignores the cutting look from her friend. “Did you have to take a lot of them this semester?”

“Yep,” she says with a slight pop to the end of her reply. “Not matter how easy exams are, it’s always such a relief when they’re completely over." Rebecca gets an equally strange smile on her face. “The exams went fine. I wasn’t too worried about them. Me and Alyssa and Emma - you’ve met them before, Hayden’s twenty-first - we decided to go hit the town last night to celebrate.”

“The night before an exam?” Riza questions as she grabs the mug of hot chocolate, refusing to leave it unattended any longer.

“I was drinking that,” Rebecca frowns and Riza evades a swipe from her mid-sip. “And yes, Mother Hawkeye. I think only the med students have anything left now, rest of the campus is in a constant state of partying.”

Riza moves the cup out of Rebecca’s hands as she reaches for it. “But I thought you swore off partying for exam week. You haven’t done it since-”

“Since that first semester as freshman, I know. But it was a special occasion.” She presses down at her eyes and rubs them. “I could sleep for another week.”

Riza hands the mug back to its original owner. She sighs, relating to her friend’s sentiment. “You and me both.”

“Mm!” Rebecca protests with hot liquid still in her mouth. “And excuse you, you were off enjoying Central!” She swats playfully at Riza’s knee. “Less about me, more about you. How did it go? I was actually  _dying_  to message you but I figured I had better let you have your fun.”

Riza lets the topic shift. Whatever Rebecca had going on would come out in due course. Besides, her tongue pokes through her teeth as she reminisces. “It was a good time,” she begins, unzipping her ankle boots to kick them off. Her arm mirrors Rebecca’s as she pushes against the back of the couch, tucking her legs under her. “Had a bit of a crash course in birthday parties.”

“There was a birthday party for you?”

Riza laughs.  _“Hell no._  I think Roy might’ve tried that if he had more time - no, I texted you this, didn’t I? We stayed with some friends of his, their daughter had just turned three. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that much screaming before.”

“And… ?”

“And what?”

Rebecca gives her an exasperated look. “You wouldn’t be looking so smug with yourself over a kids birthday party, novelty or not. I  _know_  that expression.” She sighs deeply. “Can’t believe I got kicked out off the ‘best present-giver’ throne after  _seven_  years.”

“And what expression is that ‘Becca?” It’s difficult to keep her face neutral while remembering the very  _vivid_  events of last night.

 _“That_  is the face you get when you’ve been fucked silly. I hope he put in a bit more effort than just whipping his dick out.”

“He did,” Riza answers, well aware of the blush staining her cheeks. “Bought me an outfit, bought me dinner, apparently visited like three bookshops to find my present… it was  _literally_ perfect.”

Rebecca makes a grabbing motion with her hand. “You took pics right?”

Riza whips out her phone and starts searching for the location of the photos. “He apparently took some candids while I wasn’t looking.”

“Oh shit I would have been maaaad.” She shakes her head.

“I would have too, but they’re actually not that bad.” She hands her the phone.

 _“Holy fuck.”_  Rebecca whistles low, and fans herself dramatically as she inspects the photos closely. “I’m definitely gonna borrow this. Your man has  _taste_. You know I recognize this collection, right? Olivier would have a meltdown if she saw you all dolled up in that.” A sly grin grows on her face. “Please tell me you’re gonna post this up. She deserves to be put in her place. She’s not the only one who can pull off current-season Pronovias.”

“The last thing I need is people sticking their noses into business where they don’t belong.” Riza shakes her head, swiping her phone back. “Not that I’m any better.”

“Semester’s over now! Are you worried about her coming back to strike?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Rebecca tilts her head to the side.

The hastily-stuffed photograph in her back pocket comes to the forefront of her mind’s eye, and Riza wonders whether her best friend can offer an unbiased view. She’s not used to this; a jealousy for a person that’s entirely in the picture. Both figuratively and literally. Especially the kind so fixated on one person, rather than a situation as a whole. She can’t tell if it’s merely nerves at the fact that she will probably have to meet this woman in the flesh at some point, or if it has unearthed a deep-seated insecurity. “Now that the semester is over, he’s invited me to go on a trip with him.”

“Go where? Judging by your tone, you’re making me thinking he’s invited you to a funeral.”

“Roy’s friends…” she begins, trying to think of the simplest way to explain this, “for reference, they’re loaded. Our flat could probably fit in their living room and kitchen alone. Probably as rich as Olivier, to be honest. They’re just a lot nicer about it.”

Rebecca taps over her mouth as she says, “Go on”

“Roy’s friend, Maes - I don’t think I’ve ever met a more devoted father. Family is  _everything_  to him… and he likes making grand gestures. They’re throwing this big party for their wedding anniversary and Roy wants me to go with him.”

“And you think you don’t want to go? Why?”

“It’s in Aerugo.”

Rebecca chokes. “Oh  _fuck!”_  she manages, furiously wiping away what spilled onto her chest. The mug is placed back down on the table, and Riza passes over some takeout napkins. “Where in Aerugo?” Rebecca asks after a few frantic moments of trying to save her top.

Riza scratches an itch on her brow. “He said they own the island or something? I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s called  _San Clavel_ or something.”

“Oh, Riza.” She says with a wagging finger. “You’re going on that trip. That’s final. Like, he’s paying for you, right?”

“He’s offered, but I mean-”

“But what? You know that in Aerugo absolutely  _nobody_  is gonna recognise you. You two could commit bloody murder there and all of us back home would be none-the-wiser.”

“I don’t know about that. The problem is that I’d need to reschedule with my father.” Riza knows she’s using this excuse, but she needs  _time_  to prepare for these kinds of visits, just as much as the facility that cares for him needs time to prepare him for her.

As painful as it was with every visit, Riza couldn’t cut him out of her life. The father she loved as a little girl might be nothing more than a husk now, but sometimes she’d catch glimpses of the person he used to be.

Rebecca hums sympathetically. “That’s rough. I’m sure if you call them up and explain they might be able to rearrange his schedule a little, right?”

“I suppose.” Riza doesn’t mean to sound as churlish as she does, but Rebecca merely links their fingers together and squeezes comfortingly.

“I think you should. Do you want me to go with you? Maybe if I annoy him enough he’ll snap at me just like the old times.”

That effervescent, irreverent humour is what she needs right now, though Riza might be loath to admit it. Rebecca’s grin is genuine as much as it is teasing.

“No, no,” she tells her, slumping to rest against her: Rebecca’s arm curls around her and draws meandering patterns through her sweater with manicured nails. “It’ll be easier if it’s just me. You should be celebrating your freedom.”

Rebecca hums in a non committal sort of way, and reaches for an thick envelope on the coffee table and passes it to her -  _to dearest, darlingest Riza_  is emblazoned on the front in Rebecca’s familiar loopy script. “Happy birthday, Ri,” she tells her. “I thought it’d be better if I let you choose rather than me getting you something you didn’t like.”

She thumbs open the envelope, prying away the glue with care. A gourmet chocolate bar - the kind that Riza knew she’d never bother to buy herself because the price was  _absurd_ , and a gift card for the university bookstore. “Thank you ‘Becca. Ten thousand cenz though? You spoil me.”

Rebecca laughs. “Considering the last book I had to buy for my economics class cost me twelve thousand, I’d be surprised if this even gets you an entire book at all. Maybe I should’ve invested in a bookcase for you instead. Not that it was ever gonna compare to lover boy though. I can’t believe he wants to whisk you off to  _Aerugo_ . _”_

She keeps quiet, until Rebecca pinches her.

“Ow! The hell ‘Becca!?” Riza sits up clumsily, rubbing at the reddened skin of her neck.

“I get being antsy about your dad. Really, I do. What I don’t get it why you seem so mopey about it - location notwithstanding, don’t you  _want_  to spend more time with him?”

“No - I do-”

“Because this isn’t the kind of reaction any guy would want to get. Hell, if you’re so on the fence, I’ll just don a blonde wig and go in your place. He wouldn’t notice, right?”

Riza snorts. “I think he might. I still don’t think he’s over the little stunt you pulled-”

Rebecca jabs an accusing finger in her face. “There! It  _is_  about him! You’re telling me you just had a spectacular birthday with the guy but  _don’t_  know about a trip away?”

Riza bites the bullet, and fishes out the hastily-folded photograph out and passes it to Rebecca. She frowns as she accepts it, the corners of her full lips pursing. “What’s this?”

“His ex. His best friend had some old boxes of his. This was in them.”

The eyebrows of her friend almost disappear into her hair. “And you went snooping?”

Riza groans. “I didn’t mean to! I knocked it over by accident and it all just fell out.”

“But… you took this. I assume he doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t.” Her voice is small, and Riza tucks her knees under her chin. “Logically I know I shouldn’t care but…”

“But what?  _Should_  you be concerned?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. She just always seems to be popping up even though they’ve been broken up for two years.”

“Talk me through it. You might be too close to the situation - and don’t make that face at me Riza - you  _can’t_  not be biased against her. You nicked a photo for crying out loud.”

“Okay, okay.” Riza holds up her hands in acquiescence. It stung having Rebecca - sometimes flighty, occasionally impulsive Rebecca - be more grounded than she clearly was at the moment.

“Roy told me that they’d dated for… seven years. They were engaged too, at one point. Apparently they broke up because he wanted kids and she didn’t.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. I didn’t expect that either. I don’t think it was the only reason they broke up, but it seemed like the biggest one. What makes it more complicated is that she’s kind of… related to Gracia, his best friend’s wife. But Maes, the best friend, Gracia’s husband  - I get the impression he doesn’t like her. Like,  _at all_ . Apparently he was the one who gave her the nickname  _Axe_ -”

“Wait, wait wait - the  _Axe_ you were telling me about who was drunk texting him?”

Riza nods.

“Disparaging nickname or not… a guy who keeps an ex in his phone like that-” Rebecca sighs deeply, and rolls her shoulders back. “That’s generally not a good sign Riza.”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen the texts - it’s just late night drunkenness.”

“So why doesn’t he just block her number?” Rebecca takes a long sip of her hot chocolate.  _“Any_  way you look at it is pretty damning in my opinion. An ex who won’t stop clinging to a relationship that  _he_  ended?”

She hates to admit Rebecca has a point.

“Not all affairs are physical, Riza,” her friend warns. “Emotional cheating is very much a thing. And considering you guys weren’t… a couple from the beginning, it’s not a great foundation to build from. A random hookup? I wouldn’t give a shit. An ex? That’s  _far_  murkier territory.”

It would be foolish not to admit that the circumstances aren’t great, but neither were the ones their relationship originated from. Maybe she’s refusing to see the forest for the trees, but Riza finds it difficult to think Roy capable of managing  _two_  significant secrets in his personal life not interfering by this point. “Sure, but that wouldn’t explain why he had no qualms about introducing me to all his former colleagues at the party. I got the impression that Greta runs - or did run, at least - in similar circles to his. It wouldn’t make sense to even  _want_  to bring me to Central if that was the case. If she didn’t know back then, I bet anything that she knows by now.”

Rebecca’s face scrunches up, considering. “I  _guess,”_  she says slowly, “...and I guess none of your relationship is really typical either. Nobody made any comments about it?”

“About us?” Riza throws her mind back to the party, and the people she talked to. Most didn’t seem overly interested in her - not to her face, certainly, but she wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t murmurs about the person Roy brought with him. “Most of the interest stemmed from the fact that Roy had lost contact with a lot of them and so they wanted to know how he was getting on. Gracia was the only one to actually bring up Greta in any serious capacity… and she’s her cousin or something so maybe she’d heard a different story of how things went down.

“It’s weird though; Maes  _genuinely_ dislikes her, from what I gathered. But the way Gracia talked made it sound like she was still in contact with her? I don’t know.” Riza buries her head in her hands. The more she thinks about it, the more she becomes confused.

“Okay, okay.” Rebecca sets down her empty mug, and pries Riza’s hands away from her head. “In simple terms, you’re jealous of a woman who still has some connections in Roy’s life. Whether those are through his own actions or not I can’t definitively say. What I can say, is that he’s invited you to go to Aerugo with him, for - what did you say, a wedding anniversary?”

“Vow renewal.”

“Okay, so at the very least he wants to spend more time with you, yeah? And it might be a case of him trying to kill two birds with one stone, but I don’t think you should write off the fact that he’s actively trying to involve you into the other parts of his life as best he can.” Rebecca flips the photo over, and makes a disgusted face at the note she finds.  _“For when you miss me?_  Is she anticipating that he’ll go back to her?  **_Bleurgh_ **. Clearly he hasn’t, if it was stuffed in a box that he forgot about.”

* * *

Riza rings the psychiatric facility the next morning, and speaks briefly to the doctor in charge of her father’s care. The doctor couldn’t make any promises that she could fit in a visit earlier than what they had decided on months beforehand, but she promised to at least try. It was all Riza could really ask for.

It isn't until Saturday morning when she finally gets a returning call, the familiar number of the facility emblazoned on her lockscreen.

“Doctor Cassidy,” Riza answers after a moment. “How are you?” She desperately wants to know whether her request has been accepted, but she can’t bring herself to be completely dismissive of the woman who has ensured the care of her father has been successful. A call on a Saturday, however, is unusual: Riza feels her gut sinking despite her best hopes. It  _was_  a lot to ask, in hindsight.

Evelyn Cassidy has been a constant point in Riza’s life since the accident, and her familiar, husky voice brings with it a rush of comfort and reassurance that Riza finds herself in surprising want of. “Can’t say it’s been a great week, Riza - your father certainly gave me a run for my money,” she barks a laugh, “But I was able to wrangle your visit nonetheless. He might not be very happy about it, but he has  _agreed_  to see you. Might I know why you’ve changed the date?”

The relief is palpable: Riza feels a line of tension aligning tightly against her spine dissipate into nothing. “I’ve been invited on a trip that was going to conflict with the visit next month. You know I’ve never missed an appointment, and… I don’t know, this seemed like a better compromise than cancelling.”

Doctor Cassidy hums down the phone line. “I’m glad you did call. It’s good for Berthold to have some change in his routine, especially when the result is still overwhelmingly positive. It’s good for you  _too_ , you know.”

Riza doesn’t know. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a good kid Riza, the epitome of a devoted daughter. I’m just saying that it’s good that you are putting  _your_ own life and commitments first as well. You might have a duty to your father, but he has one to you just as much.” Riza hears the shuffling of paper down the line. “I’ve arranged for you to come in at two-thirty this afternoon. Does that work for you? I know this is last minute, otherwise we can arrange for the following Saturday. He’s just in a relatively stable mood as far as I could tell this morning, and your request seemed urgent.”

Riza leans back in her chair, craning at her makeshift paper calendar pinned to the bottom of her mirror on instinct. It stares back at her blankly: quite literally so. She’s not used to her schedule being so lenient. “Yes, I can make that. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Good! Good. Unfortunately I won’t be here this afternoon, but the nurses know you’re coming. I don't think anybody else has got visits scheduled, so you should have the visiting space to yourself. He’ll appreciate that, I’m sure. I’ll leave you to it then, Riza - the nurses will let me know how it goes.”

Riza utters a quick goodbye, and then stares at the picture on her lockscreen - a view from the guest bedroom, Central gleaming in the afternoon sun like a well-polished gemstone. Their little… spat, she supposes, had left a lingering sour taste that she hadn’t felt able to wash away completely yet. It wasn’t like they weren’t talking to one another, but to Riza at least, she felt like there was a feeling of awkwardness that still clung to her.

However, that wasn’t going to stop her seeking him out in spite of that. Her thumbs drift over the touchscreen, and she navigates to his number. If she was going to visit her father this afternoon, she wanted to be in a good mood when she did - one of them needed to be, apparently.

It rings a few times before he picks up. “What’s up?” Roy asks, after a moment.

“Nothing much, I - where are you?” There’s… music in the background, if she had to hazard a guess, though it’s a stretch.

He laughs, the pleasant, deep kind that travels from the speaker and straight into her bones. “I’m at the gym right now. Did you need something, or is this just for pleasure?”

Riza snickers, shaking her head in bemusement. “The latter, actually. I just wondered if you wanted to have lunch. I’ve got to bug out this afternoon, that’s all.” She  _had_  planned on doing some more work for him - Roy had given her his login key and she was going to spend all afternoon down in the bowels of the library, photocopying and printing off an absurd amount of chemical literature, but that could wait until tomorrow morning instead.

“Yeah? I could manage that. Do you want me to pick something up?”

“If you wouldn’t mind. Whatever you feel like, I’m not too hungry.”

“Okay, I shouldn’t be too much longer,” he answers her after a slight pause. “Just let yourself in if I don’t beat you back home.”

* * *

Roy is in the kitchen freshly showered when he hears his front door open, debating whether another cup of coffee is a good idea when it’s only lunchtime. A large part of his morning had been spent pouring over the notes Elric had ever-so-helpfully scrawled in the margins of his new paper on organic compounds. The guy might be a real pain in the ass to work with - even distantly - but Roy couldn’t deny that his critiques didn’t have merit. The other part had been spent at the gym, which was the healthier way to work off some steam instead of lighting up.

He wouldn’t consider himself a chain smoker, more social than anything, but he’s struggling to remember the last time he  _had_  actually smoked. He had come across a half-used pack of Parliament's while searching for some shorts, and the thought had given him pause. Maes had always been banging on to him about quitting - he had to help be a role model to Elicia, after all - but it was hard to give up after all these years… slight nicotine addiction notwithstanding.

Perhaps it was foolish to be looking for meaning where there might not be any, but Roy was sure that  _she_  had something to do with it. She had never made any opinions known about this habit, but there always was a lingering feeling of guilt regardless.

He’s pleasantly surprised when he feels her arms slip around his torso, pressing her head against the expanse of her back. “Hello,” he greets her lightly, reaching for the cupboard with the mugs. “Can I interest you in some coffee?”

He feels her shake her head slightly, feels the heavy exhale she lets go that heaves her shoulders up and down. “No, thank you.”

Roy is quiet as he sets up the machine, only turning in her arms once his espresso is done. His fingers hover over her fringe, delicately pushing it out of her eyes.  _“Que tienes?”_  The food he had picked up from the bistro lies forgotten next to the stove, still steaming through the paper bag. This is more important right now - and, he realises, could account for her funky mood earlier this week.

“I’m okay,” she tells him, though he doubts that is accurate. “The clinic finally called back and said this afternoon would be the best time to visit Father. Apparently he hasn’t been doing so well recently.”

His arms wrap around her firmly and he presses his lips to her hair. “I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps your visit will be a good influence.” The information she’s given freely about her father is scant, but Roy knows that this is quite possibly the only topic that she’ll never truly feel comfortable talking about, no matter how many years pass. He empathises with her deeply - while now he’s come to terms with the ways in which he was treated in foster care, he had the privilege of coming out the other side with not only his blood family, but all of his adopted siblings too. He has had years to build up relationships again, to learn how to trust freely once more.

Riza is not so lucky in that regard. He sees a lot of himself in her behaviour, in how she processes these things. Grief, and the process of grieving, is not as clear-cut and linear as people posit: and for hurts that go as deeply as theirs do… it’s never easy.

Riza makes a strange little snort, and sighs deeply once more. “I don’t think that’ll ever happen,” she says, her voice muffled a little by the way she rests her head against his chest. “It’s always the same with him… silence, and maybe a nod if he’s feeling up to it. Some days I wonder why I even bother.”

She sounds so jaded, and it cuts deeply that there isn’t really  _anything_  he can do to help her. Unless -

The epiphany dawns over him slowly. “Would... would you like me to go with you?”

Riza blinks and pulls back to look at him properly. “What?”

“You said so yourself - these visits aren’t nice for you. They’re stressful - and I  _see_  that Riza, hell, I experienced it firsthand.” He feels his lips quirk upwards at the memory. “I know they’re important for you, but I don’t want you feeling like you’re having to… I don’t know, get them over with? In order to come to Aerugo with me. The last thing I want is for you to feel like you’ve gone about this the wrong way.”

Riza takes a step back, arms unconsciously curling around herself. “Why would you come?”

“Moral, emotional support. Unless you don’t want me there.” He keeps his tone light, like they are discussing the weather, not an incredibly private part of her life. He knows she can’t have a fuss made of this, or she’ll clam up. This behaviour alone - it’s  _worrying_. There is a difference between debelibrately prying and poking at issues that should be left well alone, and then there’s purposeful pushing away.

She told him mere months ago that it was just easier to keep people at arms length than admit any kind of sentiment, that she had learned long ago from the actions of others that her feelings were inconsequential in the bigger picture. It runs deep in her, and Roy thinks his heart might break at the walls she’s rapidly putting up, even to  _him_.

“I don’t-” she stops, frowning. “No, I-” she exhales harshly, and presses her lips together firmly. “These visits… they’re not nice, Roy. Really. I wouldn’t wish them on anyone.”

“And I don’t want them wished on you.” He steps towards her, fingers sliding under her chin to examine her closely. At this distance he can see flecks of gold in her warm, brown eyes. She is so,  _so_  brave. “Not alone, certainly.”

Her eyes widen, her lips part, and she looks like she might cry. Riza’s gaze lowers from his, but Roy keeps quiet, fingers steady on her jawbone. If she moves away, he won’t stop her from doing so.

She speaks up after a few minutes of unsettling silence. “Do you  _want_  to meet my father?”

“Yes,” he tells her honestly. “But it’s not a demand. If you’re not comfortable with it now, then we can table it for later. I’d like to at some point, though.”

Riza chews on her lower lip thoughtfully. “And if I said I wanted to meet your foster mother?”

Roy snickers, leaning down to kiss her forehead.  _Every reaction has an equal and opposite reaction._ “Then I would organise that. Not before preparing you for the Spanish Inquisition that will undoubtedly happen.”

Her eyebrow raises disbelievingly. “I doubt I’m  _that_ interesting.”

He turns to his espresso on the counter and takes a careful sip. “I beg to differ,  _avecilla_ . Besides, it wouldn’t just be my mother you’d be meeting. My sisters will want to meet you as well.”  _All fourteen of them_  goes unsaid, but Roy can only imagine the chaos of that environment.

“Do they know about me?”

Ah - the million cenz question. “Yes,” he answers truthfully. “They know you exist. Remember the phone call I got when we got back?”

Riza nods, her eyebrows creasing together. “Your mother wasn’t happy with you, if I’m remembering right.” She seems to hold herself tenser here, but he dismisses it.

“Yes, well… she had found out I had been back in Central and I hadn’t visited her, so that was strike number one. But word got to Vanessa that  _you_  had joined me as well, and I was told in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t bring you around immediately I would be disowned.” Well, that was the sanitised version. The  _actual_  words that were spoken were a lot more intimidating and involved all sorts of colourful threats directed at his person - the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Roy.  _Of course_  he wanted to introduce them all to Riza: he merely wanted to make sure she’d survive the encounter as well.

“They must care about you a lot.” He doesn’t miss the wistfulness in her voice, however hard she tries to bury it.

Perhaps it is a bit presumptuous of him to be thinking this far ahead, but given time, he could see her becoming close with his sisters. Not all of them, but the quieter ones; Roy thinks she would find in them kindred spirits. He has no doubts that she will be welcomed with open arms, treated as one of their own - but it’s more a matter if Riza would let herself be… well,  _adopted_  in such a manner.

His foster mother is another issue to navigate entirely, and deep down Roy knows no amount of coaching on what to expect will actually prepare Riza for the formidable woman that is Christina Mustang. He’s been careful in what he’s fed to her; enough to keep her placated, not to dig too much - because god knows what his mother would do if she found out the exact circumstances in which they met - but even still, he finds her intimidating, after all these years.

Maybe it’s selfish of him to ask this of her so suddenly, to meet her father who won’t have the capacity to respond in any meaningful way. But he needs to know the truth of her situation, and Riza has been  _very_  good about deflecting the issue. He understands that it’s difficult to talk about, especially considering the way in which she had to become an adult… but if he’s being honest with himself, he also wants to meet the man that by all appearances treated his daughter as an afterthought. The two of them might have plenty of parent issues between them, but Roy knows that she’s still coming to terms with her own.

Besides, Chris didn’t raise him to be disrespectful. The man deserved to meet him, even if he wasn’t able to give them much of an opinion or even his blessing.

“They mean well. Perhaps we could drop in for a visit on the way back from Aerugo - bringing them some food back from there would go over well.” It’s not a bad plan, when he actually thinks about it: Cecelia was due literally any day now, and she would be more than willing to run a little interference for him when they visited. Having a new grandchild present as well as Riza would keep his mother from focusing too much on either of them - meaning the visit would be less likely to end with Riza swearing off his family forever. It’s a little strange for him to recognise that he is somewhat nervous for her to meet them, but then again, it’s been years since he’s brought someone home at all.

Riza nods thoughtfully. “I guess that would be… fair.” She rubs at her eyes roughly. “If you’re gonna come with me then you’ll need a sweater or something long-sleeved. The softer the better.”

“Dare I ask why?”

A bitter smile grows on Riza’s face. “Normally he’s fine, but when I was first visiting he’d have… outbursts I guess. Scratching, tearing at his hair… they said it was because it was a new environment, and I was a new face for him after so many months in hospital. He might not even acknowledge us.”

* * *

The place is bleak, and Roy has spent a significant part of his childhood in interview rooms waiting for overloaded social workers to remember they had an appointment with his fosterers. There’s an overwhelming feeling of forgottenness here, from the peeling paint on the edifice, to the way the weeds grow in the cracks of the path to the front door. The inside is only marginally better - twenty or even thirty years ago, Roy would have agreed that this hospice was state-of-the-art.

Now it just feels horribly dated, a relic of the past that had been left behind.

Riza approaches the front desk, and speaks in low tones with the woman there. He’s staring at a painted mural that has definitely seen better days when she calls him over.

“Write your name here -” she tells him, indicating to a sheet of large white label stickers, “- and then she’ll go over the rules.”

The list of rules the nurse explains is exhaustive. No raised voices. No sudden or surprise touch. No electrical equipment. Nails to be filed down. No belts, rings -  _earrings_  - he realises her ever-present pearls are missing as she hands over her hair clip. The reality of this situation is even more harrowing than he could’ve imagined. Roy briefly debates writing in a pseudonym on his name tag, but considering he had to hand over his wallet, it wouldn't have made much difference anyway.

“We were surprised to hear from you again,” the nurse tells Riza as they turn down another long corridor. “Quite so soon, certainly. I think Berthold will like it.”

Riza makes an discontented noise. “Doctor Cassidy told me he hadn’t been well when I spoke to her on the phone this morning. I don't think this visit will be very long.”

They pass through the metal detector and the nurse - Gladys, Roy gleans from the embroidered section of her uniform, shrugs. “Even if it is, it’s still a good thing Riza. I know your father likes his routine but Evelyn did believe that this… disruption would be worth the momentary tantrums. Healing isn’t always so linear.” She guides them through another shorter hallway, and slides the door open to the visiting room. “Fabian will be here to take you back when you want to leave.”

Riza nods and thanks her, before squeezing his hand tightly. “Ready?” she asks him.

Roy nods. “Of course.”

The visiting room is a sparse affair, but it strikes Roy just how normal it looks. That is, until his eyes are drawn to the way furniture is bolted to the ground, to the heavy grate across the unlit fireplace, to the way the windows are barred and reinforced. The security measure reminds him of one of the rougher foster homes he was placed in while awaiting long-term fostering.

Riza gives him little time to get his bearings, instead pulling him over to a man sitting in a plush armchair near the fireplace.

“Roy, this is my father, Berthold Hawkeye,” Riza says, uncharacteristically chipper, like a customer service employee. Forced smiles and high pitched. She kneels down in front of the man and Roy takes a seat in the chair opposite. “Papa, I’ve been told you’re not happy that I rescheduled,” she continues carefully, like this quiet, catatonic man will maul her at any given moment. “But I’ve brought someone that I’d like you to meet. He’s a chemist, like you.” The man moves his head subtly. Riza glances at him apprehensively, but only for a moment. Her voice certainly doesn’t betray her. “And... also, my boyfriend.”

Slowly, Berthold looks up, and a brief smile appears on Riza’s face. “I had hoped that’d get your attention. This is-”

Roy put his hand up to stop her and he moves to the edge of his seat, nearly off the cushion it as he inches closer. He extends his hand out to her father for a handshake. It stays there, suspended in the air as Berthold’s blue eyes look at them listlessly, then to Riza and then to Roy, before he just as slowly takes the offer on the handshake. He can hear Riza’s breath shudder in relief.

“My name is Roy Mustang and it’s a pleasure to meet you... sir.”

* * *

Later that evening, they lie over his sheets in a pensive, post-coital stupor. Both of them naked from the heat that’s beginning to settle over East City; late spring giving way to early summer. It’s been five minutes since either of them has said anything. He’s on his side, head propped up by his hands. She’s lying on her stomach, face turned away from but he knows she’s not asleep from the way she’s breathing. At the moment, Roy is silent to simply be there for her, to let her process. She was in a peculiar mood following the visit with her father; an in-between of being glad that it went well and confusion. Even if she doesn’t wear her emotions like he does, he would be remiss if he didn’t suspect this required a substantial amount of emotional energy.

He also notices that she doesn’t flinch when he traces over the texture of her scars.

Berthold Hawkeye was quiet throughout his daughter’s abridged version of their relationship. This version of the story focused heavily on her job as his assistant and he didn’t fault her for it. Occasionally Berthold had nodded, but largely his head was turned away from the two of them, seemingly transfixed on his left hand, fingers flexing and relaxing every so often.

All the way through her retelling, he had been keenly aware of her bravado. She was so tense next to him, even more so than when Maes was grilling them. Who the act was for, he wasn’t sure: for her father, for him? For herself? In the end, he supposes it was a mix of them all.

Finally, as if reading his mind, Riza says, “I haven’t seen him respond like that in a-” she breathes in, her back just barely cresting to touch the moonlight and then back down into the shadows “-long, long time.”

Her father only given them simple responses, grunts, and nods; very rudimentary social gestures. He feels for her dearly if that had been a vast improvement. “How long?” he asks simply.

“ _Years.”_

Roy breathes out slowly and nears to kiss her bare shoulder. “I’m sorry that’s something you had to deal with on your own.”

Her shoulder blades move in a shrug under his fingertips. “It is what it is,” she says softly.

From the way she’s still looking away from him, into the shadows of his room, he suspects she’s crying or trying really hard not to. He admires her for her fortitude. It must have taken years and years to build up that shell of hers, to keep what she feels hidden from plain sight. Roy remains silent, letting her talk through this.

“My mother, she passed when I was a baby. Growing up, I had a theory that he wasn’t always so distant like he was; that when my mother died, a part of him died with her. I can’t even resent him for that. And then, the accident… that was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“He spent day after day locked in his study whenever I was home, for  _years_. It was his life’s work and to this day, I still don’t know what he was trying to do. I was simply too young to understand and even if I did, I don’t think he would have let me in.

“He was very traditionalist. Everything on paper. Nothing electronic. That way he knows it’s real, he’d say. Then something went wrong, some problem that had been giving him grief for weeks on end. He was always frustrated, muttering, banging the walls - he’d been in his study longer than ever, not coming down for meals, and leaving the food I’d bring him to get cold. I shouldn’t have been in there, in his lab. I was only bringing him some tea when he miscalculated and set off something incendiary. All of his research burned the day I got those scars.” She sighs. “He has some too, but not as severe.”

He lacks the words to appropriately respond. She’s unloading a childhood trauma that he knew was severe, but she’s dishing it out so nonchalantly, like it was just another story.

“Did you know I only majored in Chemistry for him?” She sniffles so quietly he almost misses it and his fingers stop.

“To have something to bring up to him for these visits. To engage with him in conversation he’s historically responded to. It would work at first, when I started getting past the general education requirements and then his reactions started to dwindle down again. I had thought I was just going to have to be patient until I got further and further. Career-wise, it wasn’t a bad decision either.

“In the end, it got me to you.” Her head turns to him with her eyes are bright and her mouth smiling. “And today, you helped showed me he’s not all the way gone.”

“I’m glad I can talk nerdy with your dad then.”

“It was good for him. Or at least, there’s some hope that it was.”

“Of course.” He kisses her forehead. “And since we’re exchanging war stories…”

“Is that what we’re doing?” she teases.

“Sure,” he smiles back. “It’s actually very similar to yours. But you have to promise me you can keep it a secret.”

She looks at him from her pillow, and purses her lips. “I believe I kept one all semester. I’d say my record is pretty good so far.”

“I have to cover my bases,” he says with a laugh. “My team in Research and Development were tasked with creating a very specific type of wearable weapons. The simplest explanation for the prototype would be… pyrotechnic gloves, I guess. The idea was that it would be able to pass by unscrutinised by anybody looking closer, so it could be smuggled in by spies and double agents to use at close range. The eventual goal was to be able to make a movement as innocuous as a snap of the fingers, and you’d be able to make a sizable explosion from the resulting fire.”

“ _This_  is what you got your doctorate for?”

“Well, hold on a minute, let me finish,” he says defensively. “You don’t have to tell me that what I was doing was morally wrong. It was something I thought about nearly every day. The military doesn’t create this to warm the beds of children, trust me I know. But like your father, it was my work, I had a team and because of what I was doing I was providing a livelihood for others. Or at least, that’s what I was telling myself.

“I was sleep-deprived and stressed and on a deadline. It felt like the walls were closing in on every front. I slipped up. Maybe it was a decimal point in the wrong place, or something else that I  _should’ve_  picked up on. The explosion knocked me back, but I had been impaled by - I don’t even know what it was with all burning debris falling on me. I came to a day later to discover that one of my team had died in that fire. An Ishvallan scientist, eager and as willing to learn as I had been. I was in the hospital for weeks, thinking the worst of myself, and Greta…” he swallows down the hard lump in his throat. “She was only making it worse. As far as she was concerned it wasn’t that big of a deal, that it didn’t matter that Heathcliff died because of me. I should’ve ended it there.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. I didn’t. It was a confusing time and I didn’t give myself time to think straight.” He sighs. “I realize now that how she was treating me during my convalesce, treating our relationship. It was never going to be sustainable, not the way we were heading. We were young, immature, and didn’t know how to communicate honestly with one another. Mix in a near-death experience and I know exactly why we stayed together.”

“How long ago was this?”

“I believe I was twenty-five, if not closer to twenty-six. Almost four years ago”

She doesn’t regard with pity, but understanding when she places a hand on his arm for physical comfort. It was a different and new kind of response. “I suppose I should be grateful for your change in career,” she says after a moment. “Worst injury I need to worry about you getting is a papercut.”

“The hours are a lot more lenient too. There’s never a complaint if I cancel class. But there’s still that missing element. I wonder from time to time what would have happened if I had been more vocal about the research I did for the military. The University is great but...” He trails off.

“But it’s not enough, I understand. And there’s only so much you can do with grants.”

He smiles somberly. “Exactly.”

Riza looks at him for a while. It’s a rare thing to see her so peaceful while she’s awake, no underlying tension present in her expression. “Maybe Aerugo would help clearing our minds.”

He lifts his head, to look at her face. “Are you saying you’ll go with me?”

She nods her head against the pillow and takes a deep breath, like she’s preparing herself. “I do have something to confess, though. That box that Maes gave to you before we left - when you were on the phone the other day, I accidentally knocked it over. And I found a picture, of a younger you. And Greta.”

Ordinarily he’d expect himself to be more uneasy at the revelation, but perhaps her candid honesty - so quickly after the fact - keeps him composed. “Did you? I’m surprised. When we separated, I left all the photos with her.”

“I only bring this up, because I’m curious: do you think she’ll be there?” She sounds so calm, but Roy would be a fool not to know that there is a thread of concern woven within her words.  

Greta is a fleeting creature, letting whims and tempers make her decisions. Roy can’t possibly know for sure and yet he still answers, “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _this hardening was  
>  not a part of the plan.  
> it came out of nowhere,  
> and knocked the wind  
> out from my lungs.  
> it left me breathless,  
> dazed,  
> lost.  
> confused.  
> then the darkness took over,  
> and it changed me;_
> 
> _ripping apart the soft creature i used to be.  
>  they don't warn us about the pain,  
> or the grief that lives with it.  
> but even worse,  
> they do not teach us how to deal with it all.  
> how to cope,  
> grieve the grief,  
> forgive the hurt.  
> soften the parts that we  
> have lost to the hardening.  
> i know what you've been through,  
> i've been around the same places.  
> i thought you looked familiar.  
> the pain,  
> it lives in your eyes.  
> trying to escape with each tear.  
> every drop telling a story of its own.  
> you fell in love,   
> didn't you?  
> tell me all about them.  
> you are safe here.  
> were they everything you'd hope for,  
> perhaps even a little more?  
> did they say all the right things  
> at the right time?  
> were they pure perfection?  
> you'd do anything for them,  
> i know, i know.  
> like i said,  
> i've been there too.  
> but they left.  
> without any proper closure,  
> gone before the dusk of night.  
> your poor heart,  
> i can hear the cracks as it beats.  
> it has seen better days.  
> they took so much of you,  
> now you're not even sure who you are without_
> 
> _their existence in your life.  
>  you're still mourning the loss of them,  
> the loss of yourself.  
> i know it must be hard to see the bigger picture_
> 
> _right now...  
>  all you can imagine is  
> how flawlessly they walked away,  
> replaying all the promises said,  
> all the promises made.  
> but listen closely.  
> them leaving was the   
> best thing to ever happen to you.  
> thank them.  
> this is all you owe them.  
> be grateful for their departure,  
> because the day they left.  
> was also the day  
> you were reminded  
> how important it is to truly admire,  
> and put yourself first.  
> forever.  
> and always._
> 
> _i just want you  
>  and your wild love._
> 
> _love that stays._
> 
> _this is the type  
>  of love i crave._


End file.
